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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

VOL. IV.
OCTOBER, 1866, TO MABCH, 1867.

NEW YORK:
LAWRENCE EEHOE, PUBLISHER.

145 Nassau Stbbbt.

1887.

660552

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IV., NO. 19.— OCTOBER, 1866.

PROBLEMS OP THE AGE.

VII.

THE DOGMA OP CREATION— THE PRIN-
CIFLE, ARCHETYPE, AND END OF THE
CREATIVE ACT.

The next article of the creed is,
" Creatorem coeli et teme :" Creator
of heaven and earth.

The mystery of the Trini^ exhausts
the idea of the activity of God within
his own interior heing, or ad intra.
The dogma of creation expresses the
idea of the activity of God without his
own interior heing, or ad extra. It is
an explication of the primitive idea of
reason which presents simultaneously
to intelligence the absolute and the
contingent in their necessary relation
of the dependence of the contingent
upon the absolute. Being an explica-
tion of the rational idea, it is rationally
demonstrable, and does not, therefore,
belong to the super-intelligible part of
the revelation, or that which is believ-
ed simply on the veracity of God.
That portion of the dogma of creation
which is super-uitelligible, or revealed
truth in the highest sense, relates to
the supernatural end to which the
creation is determined by the decree
of God. Nevertheless, although the

TOI- IV. 1

idea of creation, once proposed, is de-
monstrable on purely rational princi-
ples, it is fairly and fiilly proposed to
reason under an adequate and explicit
conception adequately expressed, only
by divine revelation. Wherever
this adequate formula of revelation
has been lost, the conception has been
lost with it, and not even the highest
philosophy has restored it Plato's
conception of the formation of the uni-
verse went no higher than the im-
pression of divine ideas upon matter
eternally self existent. In all philoso-
phy which is not regulated by the
principles of revelation, the ideas of
necessary being and contingent exist-
ence and of the relation between
them are more or less confused, and
the dogma of creation is corrupted.

The pure, theistic conception gives
at once the pure conception of crea-
tion.

Not that the idea of creation can be
immediately perceived in the idea of
Grod, whieh has been shown to be im-
possible ; but that it can be perceived
in the idea of Grod by the medium of
the knowledge of finite existences
given to the intellect together with the
knowledge of infinite bemg, ia the

PtoUeTM of the Age,

primitive intuition. When the idea
of infinite being is fully explicated and
demonstrated in the perfect conception
of God, the existence cf real entities
which are not Grod, and therefore not
Included in necessary being, being
known, the relation of these things
extrinsic to the being of God, to the
being of God itself, becomes evident in
the idea of God. It is evident that
they have no necessary self-existence
either out of the divine being or in
the divine being, and therefore have
been brought out of nonentity into en-
tity by the act of God.

This creative act of God is that by
which he reduces possibility to actual-
ity. It is evident that this possibility
of creation, orcreability (f finite exist-
ences extrinsic to the divine essence,
is n(»cessary and eternal. For God
could not think of doing that which he
does not think as poss^ible, and his
thoughts are eternal. The thought or
idea of creation is therefore eternal in
the divine mind. It is a divine and
eternal archetype or ideal, which the
cxternised, concrete reality copies and
represents. The divine essence is the
complete and adequate object of the
divine contemplation.

It is, therefore, in his own essence
that God must have beheld the eternal
possibility of creation and the ground
or reason of creability. It is tlic
divine essence itself, therefore, which
contains the archetype or ideal of a
possible creation. As an archetype, it
must contain that which is equivalent
•to finite essences, capable of being
brought into concrete, actual existence
by the divine power, and multiplied to
an indefinite extent God's eternal
knowledge of the possibility of crea-
tion is, therefore, his knowledge of his
own essence, as an archetype of exist-
ences which he is capable of enduing
with reality extrinsic to the reality of
his own being, by his omnipotent
power. The eternal possibility of
creation, therefore, exists necessarily in
the being and omnipotence of God.
It is the imitability of the divine
essence as archetype by finite essences,

which are its real and extrinsic simili-
tudes, and which are extrinsecated by
an act of the divine will. The idt-al
or archetype of creation is evidently
as necessary, as etenial, as unchange-
able, as God himself. God cannot
create except according to tliis arche-
type, and in creating must necessarilj
copy himself, to give extrinsic exist-
ence to something which is a concrete
expression of the divine ideal in hi^
own intelligence. This ideal which
creation copies being, therefore, eternal
in the divine intelligence, and the inte-
rior activity of the divine intelligence,
or its interior ideal life, being inexpli-
cable except in the relation of the
three persons in God, creation is like-
wise inexphcable, except in r'^latkn
to the distinct persons of the Trinity.
The Son, or Word, proceeds from
the contemplation of his own divine
essence by tlie Father, who thus re-
produces the perfect and coequal im-
age of himself. In this act of contem-
plation, the knowledge of the arche-
type of creation, or of the creability of
essences resembling the divine essence,
is necessarily included. The expi*essed
ideal or archetype of all possible exist
ences is therefore in the Word, as the
personal hnage of the Father, and he
contains in himself, in an eminent and
equivalent manner,* infinite simili-
tudes or images ca[)able of being re-
duced to act, and made to reflect him-
self hi a countless variety of ways.
The Son thus communicates with the
Father in creative omnipotence. The
spiration of the Holy Spirit, from the
Father and the Son, consummating the
act of contemplation by which the Son
is generated in love, and thus complet-
ing the interior, intelligent, or spiritual
life of God within himself, is perfectly
correlated to the eternal generation of
the Son. The complete essence of God
is communicated by the Father and the
Son to the Holy Spirit, and with it crea-
tive omnipotence as necessarily includ-
ed in it. The object of volition in Grod
is identical with the object of intelli-
gence. The essence of God as being
the archetype of a possible creation.

Protkms of the Age.

that is, the ideal of creation, or the
idea which creation copies, being in-
cluded in the term of the divine intelli-
gence, or in the Word, is also included
in the term of the divine love, or the
Holy Spirit. The ideal of creation is
therefore included in the object of the
eternal, intelligent, living contempla-
tion in which the three persons of the
blef^ed Trinity are united. The power
of illimitable creation according to the
divine archetype is a necessary and
eternal predicate of his divine being,
which he contemplates with compla-
cency. The idea of creation is there-
fore as eternal as Grod; it is coeval
with him, and the object of the inef-
fiible communications of the divine
persons with each other from eternity.
Grod has always been pleased with this
idea, as the artist deHghts himself in
the ideal of beauty, to which he feels
himself capable of giving outward form
and expression in sculpture, painting,
or architecture.

The decree of God to reduce this
possibility of creation to act, or the
creative purpose, is likewise eternal ;
since all divine acts are in eternity, and
there is no process of deliberation or
progress from equilibrium to determi-
nation possible in the unchangeable
God. God \a actus purissirmis, most
pure act, and there is in him nothing
potential or reducible to act which is
■ not in act from eternity ; since in him
there is no past or future, and no suc-
cession, but iota, simtd ac perfecta
possessto viUie interminahiUs, a com-
plete, simultaneous, and perfect posses-
sion of interminable life.

The necessity of his own self-existent
being does not determine him to the
creative act, but merely to the exercise
of supreme omnipotence in choosing
freely between the contemplation of
creation in its ideal archetype alone,
and of creation in its ideal archetype
determined to outward actual expres-
sion. The inward life of Grod is neces-
sary, and the interior act of beatific
contemplation is of the essence of the
divine being. Nothing beyond this,
or outside A the interior essence of

God, can be necessary, and the crea-
tion cannot therefore be necessary, or
it would be included in the idea of
God, and be identical with the essence
of God. God does not create, therefore,
by necessity of nature, but by volun-
tary choice. It is the only exercise ot
•voluntary choice possible to him. It is a
choice, however, which though free is
determined from eternity. He migfit
have eternally chosen the contrary,
that is, to leave the possible creation
unactualized in its ideal archetype.
He did eternally choose, however, to
create.

The learned expositor of St.
Thomas, F. Billuart, says that the
purpose to create is communicated
by the Father to the Word, concomi-
tantly with the intelligence of the
divine essence by which he is gener-
ated.* Creation is no afterthought,
no capricious or sportive play of om-
nipotence, like the jeu d^ esprit which
a poet throws off from a sudden
impulse of fancy. The creative
purpose has been the theme of the
mysterious communications of the
three persons of the blessed Trini-
ty, from all eternity. In Grod, pur-
pose and act, consultation and decree,
are one. The decree of creation and
the creative act are identical. The
creative act, therefore, a parte Dei, is
eternal. It is an illusion of the imag-
ination to conceive of time as having
existed before creation. *• In the
beginning, God created the heavens
and the earth.** That beginning was
the first moment of time, which St.
Thomas says God created when be
created the universe. Time is a mere
relation of finite entities to each other
and to infinite being, arising from
their limitation. The procession of
created existences is necessarily in
time, and could not have begun ah
cetemo without a series actually in-
finite, which is impossible. Never-
theless, the first instant of created
time had no created time behind it,
and no series of instants behind it,

•TrMiD«Trin. Diss. V., Art IIL

ProUemi of the Age.

intervening between it and eternity,
but touched immediately on eternity.

The procession of created existences
from God is a finite similitude of the
procession of the Son and Holy Spirit
from the Father. Creation is an ex-
pression of that archetype in finite
ibrm which is expressed in the infinite
image of the Word. He is ^Hhe
splendor of the g\ory, and the express
image of the substance^'* of the
Father ; and creation is a reflection of
this splendor, a reduplication in minia-
ture of this image. It is an act of the
same infinite intelligence by which the
infinite Word is generated. For al-
though finite itself, it is the similitude
of an infinite archetype which only
infinite intelligence can possess within
itself. It is also an act of the same
infinite love whose spiration is the
Holy Spirit. The sanctity of the
divine nature consists in the perfect
conformity of intelligence and volition.
Volition is love, a complacency in
good« Love must therefore concur
with intelligence in every divine act,
that it may be holy. The Holy Spirit,
or impersonated love, must concur
with the Father and the Son, as prin-
ciple and medium, to consummate or
bring to its final end the creative act.
Creation is tlierefore essentially an
act of love ; proceeding from intelli-
gence and ordained for beatitude;
proceeding from God as first cause,
and returning to him as final cause.f

The final cause of creation must be
God, just as necessarily as its first
cause must be God. The creative
decree being eternal, all that consti-
tutes its perfection, including its end
and consummation, must be eternal,
and must therefore be in Grod. He
is the principle and consummation of
his own act ad ui/ro, and of his act
ad eztroy which imitates it perfectly.
Grod creates, because he freely chooses
to please himself by . conferring the
good of existence through the creative
act on subjects distinct from himself.

• Hebe La

t Flaal cause !■ the uune m ultimate end. It li the
caoM or reaaoa oC the detemilnaUoa of Go<l to

The adequate object of this vo-
lition of God is himself as the
author of created good, or the teim of
the relation which created existences
have to him as their creator. The
possession of good by the creature is
inseparable in the volition of God
from the complacency which he has
in the exercise of the power of be-
stowing good by creation. Although
he is necessarily his own final end
in creating, yet this does not prevent
creation from being an act of pure
and free love, but on the contrary
makes it to be so; because it is as
infinite love that God is the end of his
creative act. A charitable man, who
confers good upon another, is moved by
a principle of love in himself, which
causes him to take delight in the hap-
piness of his fellow-creatures. This
movement originates in himself, and
returns back to himself, being con-
summated in the pure happiness which
the exercise of love produces^ Yet the
possession of good by another is the
real object which elicits the act of
love, and it is therefore pure, disin-
terested charity. Love makes the
good as given, and the good as re-
ceived, one identical object, and unites
the giver and receiver in one good.
Selfishness is inordinate self-love, or a
love of others merely so far as they
serve as instruments of our own
pleasure and advantage, and not as
themselves subjects of liappiness.
But the just love of self and of others
is identical in principle, proceeding
from the amor erUis, or love of being.
The benignant father, prelate, or
sovereign, the generous benefactor of
his fellow-men, is not less disinterested
in his acts on account of the pure
happiness which comes back to himself,
filling his heart with the purest happi-
ness of which it is capable. Thus in
God ; his complacency in his creative
act, or sovereign pleasure in creating,
is the purest and most perfect love
to the creature. That which he de-
lights in as creator is the bestowal
of existence, which participates in the
infinite good of his own being.

ProNeim of the Age.

Tbe node and degree in which
existences participate in this infinite
good which God distnbates from the
pleaHade of his own being, specifi-
cates and determines their relation
to him as final cause, and cpnstitates
the ultimate term to which their crea-
tion is directed. This ultimate term
or final end of creation as a whole^
includes the ends for which each part
taken singly is intended, and the
common end to which these minor
and less principal ends are all subor-
dinated in the universal creatiye do*
sign. The end of a particular por-
tion of the creation, taken singly, is
attained, when it makes the final and
complete explication of that similitude
to the divine perfections which con-
Btitates it in its own particular grade
of existence. The end of the uni-
verse of existences is attained, when
they collectively reach the maximum
of excellence which God proposed to
himself in creating. That is, when
the similitude of the perfections of
God is expressed in tbe universe iu
that variety of distinct grades, and
raised to diat altitude in the series
of possible states of existence, which
God prefixed in the beginning as the
ultimate term of the creative act
Whatever the maximum of created
good may be, whatever may be the
predetermined limits of the universe
of existence, whatever may be the
highest point of elevation to which it
is destined, it is evident that the ac-
complishment of the creative act
brings the creation back to God as
final cause. It has its final end in God,
wherever that finality may have been
fixed by the eternal will of God.
This is very plain and obvious. But
it leads into one of the most abstruse
and, at the same time, one of the most
unavoidable questions of philosophy,
that which relates to the end of crea-
tion metaphysically final. What is
the end of creation, or the relation
of the universe of created exist-
ences to the final cause, which
is metaphysically final? How far
ought the actual end of created

existences to coincide, or does it really
coincide with the end metaphysically
final?

vin.

THE END OF CBEATION METAPIIYSICALLY
PIKAL— THE ASCENDING SERIES OF
GRADES IN EXISTENCE — THE SUMMIT OP
THIS SERIES IS A NATURE HYP08TATI-
CALLY UNITED TO THE DIVINE NATURE
OF THE WORD— THE INCARNATION, THE
CREATIVE ACT CARRIED TO THE APEX
OF P088IBILITT— THE SUPERNATURAL
END TO WHICH THE UNIVERSE IS DES-
TINED COMPLETED IN THE INCARNA-
TION.

By the end of creatbn metaphysi-
cally final, is meant a relation of the
universe to God as final cause which
is final in the divine idea, or the one
which God beholds in his own infinite
intelligence as the ultimatum to which
his omnipotence can carry the crea-
tive act. It is a relation which brings
the creature to the closest union and
similitude to the creator in the good
of being which the nature of the
infinite and of ihe finite will admit.

We have already established the
doctrine that God is by nature free to
create or not to create, and eternally
determines himself to creation by his
own sovereign will to confer the pure
boon of existence. We have also
established, that since God determines
himself from eternity to create, he
necessarily creates in accordance with
his own nature or essence, in accord-
ance with the eternal archetype and
idea reflected in the person of the
Word ; and for his own glory, or for
an end in himself to which the crea-
ture is related, and which he must
attain if he accomplishes his destiny.
But we must inquire further, whether
in determining himself to create ac-
cording to the archetype contained in
his own essence, he necessarily carries
out this idea to the most perfect and
complete actualization in the real uni-
verse ? That is, does he necessarily
create for an end metaphysically final,
and cany the creative act to its apex,
or the summit of possibility? Or
is there any degree of existence or

ProUemi of ike Age*

prrade of rescmblaDce and relation
to God as archetype which must be
p apposed in order to conceive of an
end accomplished bv creation which
U worthy of the divine wisdom and
poodness? Or, on the contrary', is
it just as free to God to determine
any limit, however low, as the term
of creation, as it is to abstain from
creating ? For instance, can we sup-
pose it consistent with the divine
wisdom to create only a grain of
>and ? On the one hand, it may be
said that creation being a free act,
the creation of a grain of sand does
not take away the liberty of the di-
vine will to abstain from creating any-
thing else. On the other hand, God,
as being in his very essence the in-
finite wisdom, must have an adequate
end in view, even in creating a grain
of sand. It may be said that the
creation of a grain of sand is truly an
infinite act, and that a grain of sand
represents the omnipotence of God
as truly as the universe itself. Yet,
it is difficult to see any reason why
Almighty Go<l should make such a
represiMitation merely for his own
(rontemplation. For the same reason,
it is equjiUy difficult to suppose any
adequate motive for the creation of a
merely material universe, however
extensive. Tlie wisdom and power
of Go<l are manifestetl, but manifested
to himself alone. The very end of
such a numifestation appears to be to
manifest the attributes of (Jod to
intelligent minds capable of appre-
hending it. Supi)ose the material
universe filled with sentient creatures,
and, although its end is thus partially
fulfilled, by the enjoyment which they
tux) capable of receiving from it, its
adaptation to the manifestation of the
divine attributes to intelligence is still
aj)parently without an object. The
senti<jnt ci-eation itself manifests the
wisdom and goodness of God in such
a way tliat it seems to require an
intelligent nature to apprehend it, in
order that God may be glorified in
his works, and that the love which
La the essential consummating princi-

ple of the creative act may be re-
fiected back from the creation to the
creator, and thus furnish an adequate
term of the divine complacency.
This complacency of Grod iu himsdf
as creator, as we have seen, ia compla-
cency in the communication of good,
or pure, disinterested love delighting
in the distribution of its own infinite
plenitude. Tiie material creation can
only be the recipient of this love in
transitu or as the instrument and
means of conveying it to a subject
capable of apprehending it The
sentient creation can only be the
recipient of it as its most imperfect
term, and as an end most inadequate
to the means employed. The wisdom
and goodness of Gfod in the creative
act cannot therefore be made intelli-
gible to us, except as we consider it
as including the creation of intelligent
natures, capable of sharing in the
intelligent life of Grod. As soon as
the mitnl makes this point, it is able
to perceive an adequate motive for
the creation, for it apprehends a good
in the finite order resembling the
infinite good which is necessary and
uncreated. It is approaching to a
finality, for it apprehends that the
rational nature is that nature in which
the finality must be situated, or in
which the ultimate relation of the
universe to the final cause must exist
In other words, it apprehends that
Gtxi has created a ttnicerse, including
all generic grades of existence expli-
cated into a vast extent and variety of
subordinate genera and species multi-
plied in a countless number of indi-
viduals, all subordinate to a common
order, and culminating in intelligent
life. It api)rehends tlie correspond-
ence of the actual creation to its ideal
archetype, or the realization in act of
the highest possible nature which
omnipotence can create after the
i-escmblance of his own essence
impersonated in the Word, and ot
every inferior nature necessary to
the constitution of a universe^ or a
world of comjiosite order and har-
mony comprising all tlie essential

Proliemi of tie Age.

forma of existeoce whose infinite
equivalent is in the divine idea.

It is evidently hefitting the wisdom
and grandeur oif Almighty God, that
the created universe should represent
to created intelligence an adequate and
universal similitude of his being and
perfections ; that its vast extent and
variety, the multiplicity of distinct ex-
istences which it contains, its compli-
cated relations and harmonies, the sub-
limity and beauty of its forms, the su-
perabundance of its sentient life and
enjoyment, the excellence and per-
fection of its intelligent creatures,
should be adapted to overwhelm the
mind with admiration of the might and
majesty, the wisdom and glory, the
goodness and love of the Creator ;
that, as far as possible, the procession
of the divine persons within the es-
sence of God should be copied in the
procession of created existences ; that
the ineffiible object of the divine con-
templation, or the Word going forth
from the infinite intelligence of the Fa-
ther and returning to him in the Holy
Spirit, should be represented in created
similitudes by the communication of
U*ing, life, and intelligence, in every
possible grade, and the completion of
these in the most sublime manner of
union to God of which finite nature is
capable. This consummation of the
creative act is worthy of the wisdom
of God ; for it is the most perfect act
of the divine intelligence ad extra, or
extrinsic to the actiLs punssimus by
which the Word is generated in the
unity of his eternal being, which is
possible. It is worthy of the goodness
of God ; for it is the most perfect act
of love ad extra, or extrinsic to the
actus purissimus of the spiration of the
Holy Spirit, consummating the interior
life of Grod in eternal, self-sufficing
beatitude, which omnipotence can pro-
duce.

Let us now analyse the composite
order of the universe, and examine its
component parts singly, in reference to
the final end to which this order is de-
termined. We will then proceed to
examine more closely the mode by

which the end of the universe is at-
tained in the rational nature, and the
relation of this rational nature to the
end metaphysically final.

Theologians distinguish in the divine
nature esse, vivere, and tnteUigere, or
being, life, and intelligence, as consti-
tuting the archetype of the inanimate,
animated, and rational orders of crea-
tion respectively.

The inanimate order, composed of
the aggregate of material substances,
imitates the divine esse, considered as
concrete and real^imply ; prescinding
the idea of vital inovement. It imi-
tates the divine being in the lowest and
most imperfect manner. The good
that is in it can only be apprehended
and made to contribute to the happi-
ness of copscious existence when a
higher order of existence is created.
God loves it only as an artist loves an
aqueduqf, a building, or a statue, as
the medium of contributing to the
well-being or pleasure of his creatures.
Its hidden essence is impervious to our
intelligence. The utmost that we can
distinctly conceive of its nature is
that it is a vis activa, an active force,
producing sensible effects or phenome-
na. This appears to be the opinion
which is more common and gaining
ground both among physical and me-
taphysical philosophers.* By active
force is meant a simple, indivisible
substance, which exists in perpetual
activity.' It is material substance, be-
cause its activity is blind, unconscious,
and wholly mechanical, producing by
physical necessity sensible effects,
such as extension, resistance, etc
Though not manifest to intelligence in
its hidden nature and operation, it
is apprehensible by the intelligence
through the effects which it operates,
as something intelligible. Its sensible

♦ The philosophical worksi of Lelbnitx may be con-
sulted for a thorough exposition of this doctrine. Also
the Philosophical Manuals of F. Rothenllue, S.J.,
and the Abh6 Branchereau of the Society of i^t. Sul-
pice. The philosophical articles of Dr. Brownson In
his Revleir contain some inddeutnl arguments of
great value on the same topic. P. Dalgalms. of the
London Oratory, also treats, with the ability and
clearness which characterize all his writings, of this
subject, at considerable length, la his work on th«
lloly CommanloD.

PrMems of the Age.

phenomena are not illusions, or mere
subjective forms of the sensibility, but
are objectively real. Nevertheless,
our conception of them must be cor-
rected and sublimated by pure reason,
in order to correspond to the reality or
substance wliich stands under them.
Our imaginary conceptions* represent
only the complex of phenomena pre-
sented to the senses. They represent
matter as composite, because it is only
through composition, or the interaction
of distinct material substances upon
each other, that the^fiects and pheno-
mena are produceu which the senses
present to the imagination. The sub-
stance, or active force which stands
under them, is concluded by a judg-
ment of the reason. Reason cannot
arrest itself at the com|)Osite as some-
thing ultimate. Tlie common, crude
conception of extended bulk as the ul-
timate material reality, is like the
child's conception of the surface of the
earth as the floor of the universe hav-
ing nothing below it, and of the sky as
its roof; or like the Indian conception
of an elepliant sup{>orling the world,
wlio stands himself on the back of a
tortoise, who is on the absolute mud
lying at the bottom of all tilings. It
is the essential oi>eration of reason to
penetrate to the alttssima catisa^ or
dee])est cause of things, and not to
stop at anything as its tonn which im-
plies something else as the reason or
principle of its existence. It cannot
therefore stop at anything short of tlie
aliissima causa, in the order of mate-
rial second causes, any more than it
can stop short of the cause of all
causes, or the absolute first cause.
That which is ultimate in the compo-
site must be simple and indivisible in
itself, and divided from everything
else, or it cannot be an original and
primary comiwnent. For, however
far tlie analysis of a composite may be
carried, it may be carried further, un-
less it has been analysed to its simple
constituent parts which are not them-

♦ By 'Mmaglnarx roncfptloim" U not meant
fani'iful, uiiix-al cuii(vptiun«, tmt roiicrptlnna of th«
IiiiiiiririHtive u au iutcllectual t*cuUy which reflccti
the rtal.

selves composite, and therefore sinpk.
It is of no avail to take refuge ia the
notion of the infinite divbibilitj of
matter. For, apart from the abnir
dity of the infinite series cootained
in tliis notion, one of these infinileeimal
entities could certainly be divided fnm
all others by the power of God and
made intelligible to the human unde^
standing. And the very question un-
der discussion is. What is the intelligi-
ble essence of this ultimate entity?

Another proof that material sub-
stance is something intelligible and
not something sensible, is, that it has
a relation to spiritual substance, and
therefore something cognate to spirit
in its essence. The Abbu Brancho-
rcau defines relation : " Proprlctatcm
qua duo aut plura entia ita se habeat
ad invicem, ut uuius conceptus concept-
urn alterius includat aut supponat."
" A proiKjrty by which two or more en-
tities are so constituted in reference to
one another, that the conception of one
includes or supi)Oses the conception of
the other."*

The conception of spirit must contain
the equivalent of the conception of
mat tor, and the conception of matter
must contain sometlnng the equivalent
of which is contained in spirit. Else,
they must be related as total opposites,
which leads to the absurd conclusion
that in the essence of God, which is the
equivalent of all finite essences, total
op])osi(es and contnidictions are con-
tained. The same is affirmed by F.
Bilhiart af\er the scholastic principles
of the Thomists. *' Supremum autcm
natunc inferions attingitur a nntura
supt^riori." " The summit of the in-
ferior nature is touched by the su|)erior
nature."t Kverything copies the es-
sence of God and exists by its par-
ticipation in his l>eing. There is no
rt»ason therefore for any other dis-
tinction in creatures except the dis-
tinction of gradation in a series, or the
distinction of a more or less intense
grade of participation in behig. God
cannot create anything totally dissim

♦ Prirleft. l»hlIo«. Di- lUUt. EntU. Num. 108, 8.
f l>« Au^Ua. UUa. IL Art L

I^vhlemt of the Age.

ifaur to himsdf, because the sole arch-
eljpe imttable in the creative act,
whose similitiide b externised in
creation, is himself. All things there-
fn^ being similar to his essence are
similar to the essence of one another,
eadi to each, each grade in the as-
eending series containing the equiva-
Irat of all below it

The material creation represents the
real being of Grod, as distinguishable
in thonght from his life and intelli-
gence, in an express and distinct man-
ner. The being of God is the arche-
type of the material creation, and con-
tains a reason why the material order
was necessary to perfect the nniverse.
All geometrical principles are intui-
tively seen by the reason to be eternal
^ truths. As eternal and necessary they
are incladed in the object of the divine
contemplation. The complete and
adequate object of the divine contem-
plation is the divine essence. It is
therefore in his own essence that
Grod sees these necessary geometri-
cal truths, not as we see them, but
as identical with the truth of his
own being in some way above our
human understanding. These eter-
nal geometrical principles are the
principles which lie at the basis of
the structure of the nmterial universe,
which therefore represents something
in the divine essence not immediately
and distinctly represented by the spi-
ritual world.

Without pretending to define pre-
cisely what the material universe re-
presents as equivalently and eminently
contained in the divine essence, we
are only uttering a truism when we
affirm that what man in his present
state principally apprehends through
it, is the idea of the immensity of the
divine being. The material universe,
which has a quasi infinitude to our
feeble and limited imagination, is an
image of God as possessing boundless
infinitude, and including an immear
Borable ocean of perfections. It is
only when the mind becomes so over-
whelmed with the magnitude of the
creation as to forget its relation to the

creator, that its judgment is erroneous.
And the error of judgment does not
consist in appreciating the material
universe too highly, but in appreciat-
ing it too little, that is, in not appre-
ciating its highest relation to the spirit-
ual order, with which it is cognate in
its essence. The physical, visible
world is not to be despised. It is no
illusion, no temporary phase of reality,
no perishable substance, but real, inde-
structible, and of endless duration. Its
essence and its relation to the final
cause are incomprohensiblc. Its es-
sence is, however, so far intelligible
that we can understand it to be a real
entity, bearing a similitude to the
divine nature, endued with active force
as a physical second cause, through
which wonderful phenomena are pro-
duced in which the divine perfections
are manifested. Its end is also intel-
ligible as subordinated to the higher
grades of existence and to the grand
composite order of the universe.

The next grade of existence is that
which represents the vivere of the di-
vine essence, or presents an animated
and living similitude of the life of
God. The distinct type of this grade
is in the animal world, but it is con-
nected with tlie inanimate creation by
an intermediate link, namely, that
which is constituted by the world of
vegetative life. This world of vegeta-
tive life represents the principle of life
in an inchoate form, and ministers to
the higher life of sentient existences, by
furnishing them with the sustenance
and food of their physical life, and
contributing to their enjoyment by the
beauty of its forms.

Thus far, the creation is merely
good as means to an end, or as the
substratum of that order of existence
which is capable of apprehending and
enjoying good. In the sentient cre-
ation, existence becomes a good in
itself, or a good capable of termi-
nating the divine will. The count-
less multitudes of sentient creatures
are created that they may enjoy life,
and attain their particular end in
this enjoyment* Nevertheless this

Prohtems of the Age.

particular end is a minor and less
principal end in reference to the gen-
oral end of tlie created universe. To
this more general end the sentient
order contributes, by increasing the
beauty and perfection of the whole,
and ministering to the happiness of
the higher, intelligent order.

This third and highest grade of ex-
istence represents the divine intelli*
gere. It includes all rational natures,
or intelligent spirits, created after the
similitude of that in the divine essence
which is the liighest archetype imita-
ble in finite existences. According
to the regular series of gradation, man
comes next in order above the animal
world, and should be first considered.
There is a particular reason, however,
which will appear hereafter, for con-
sidering the angels first

The angels represent most perfectly
the order of pure intelligence as dis-
tinct from the irrational creation. By
tlicir nature they are at the summit of
existence, and participate in the most
immediate and elevated mode which
can be connatural to any created es-
sence, in the divine perfections. The
perfection of the universe requires
that it should contain a grade of ex-
istence imitating that which is high-
est in the essence of God so far as it
is an archetype of a possible creation.
There is nothing conceivable in the
divine essence higher than its intelli-
gence or pure spirituality. The divine
life is consummated in the most pure
act of intelligent spirit, which is the
procession of the Word and Holy
Spirit from the Father. This divuie
procession within the divine essence
being the archetype of the procession
of created existences without it, the
latter ought to imitate the former by
producing that which represents the
intelligent act of Grod as closely as
j)05>sible. This intelligent act of Grod
being consummated in love, or com-
placency m that infinite good wluch
is the object of intelligence, creation,
which imitates and represents it, ought
to contain existences which are the
recipients of love and are capable of its

exercise in the highest possible nmn-
ner which can be essential to a created
nature. The creative act would there-
fore be most imperfect and incomplete
if it stopped short with the material
or even the sentient creation. Sup-
posing that God determines to carry
out his creative act by creating a uni-
verse or a world in which the poten-
tial is actualized in a universal man-
ner by representing the esse,, rivere,
and intelligere of Uie divine essence
in every generic mode, this uuirerse
must evidently contain intelligent
spirits. Intelligent spirit alone can
apprehend the image of God in crea-
tion, apprehend itself as made in the
image of God, apprehend the infinite
attributes of God by the intuition of
reason, and become fully conscious of
the good of existence, capable of enjoy-
ing it, and of returning to the creator an
act of love, worship, and glorification,
for his great boon of goodness confer-
red in creation. Creation is an over-
flow of the plenitude of good in the
divine being proceeding fi*om the com-
placency of God in the communica-
tion of this good. This communication
can be made in a manner which ap-
pears to our reason in any way ade-
quate to terminate the divine com-
placency, only by the communication
of intelligence.

The type of intelligent nature ia.
most perfectly actualized in the an-
gels, whose essence and operation are
purely spiritual, so far as created, fin-
ite nature an< I operation can be purely
spiritual. Whatever is intelligible or
conceivable of finite, intellectual activ-
ity as connatural, or intrinsiciilly in-
cluded in the essence of created spirit,
is to be attributed to them.

The notion of any composition of
nature in the angels, or hypostatic
union of their pure, spiritual substance
with another material substance dis-
tinct from it, is wholly gratuitous. It
destroys the distinctive type of the an-
gelic nature and the specific difference
between it and human nature.. It has
no foun<lation in reason except the base-
less supposition that a distinct corpo-

Problems of the Age.

real oi^gaoization is necessary to the
exercise of created intelligence. Nor
has it any solid support from tradition
or extrinsic authority.

Some of the fathers are cited as
maintaining it. Their language is,
however, for the most part explained
hy the best theologians as indicating
not the union of the angelic spirit to a
distinct subtle corporeity, but the exist-
ence of something analogous to mat-
ter in the angelic spirit itself. The
angels are called corporeal exi^tencesy
because their essence is extrinsic to
the divine essence, and extrinseca-
tion attains its extreme limit in matter ;
also because their potentiality is not
completely reduced to act, and their
O()eration is limited by time and space.
This appears to be also the notion ad-
vocated by Leibnitz, and the exposition
of the nature of material substance
giTcn above, in accordance with his
philosophy, removes all difficulty from
the subject.

The conception of the angelic es-
sence as completely free from all com-
position with a distinct material sub-
stance, is also at least more evidently
b harmony with the decree Firmiter
of the Fourth Council of Latcran, than
any otlier.' " Firmiter credimus et sim-
pliciter confitemur, quod unus est solus
venis Dens aetemus. .... qui
sua omnipotenti virtutc simul ab initio
temporis, utramque de nihilo con-
didit creaturam, spiritualem et cor-
poralem, angelicam videlicet et mun-
danam : ac deinde Immanam quasi com-
muncm ex spiritu et corpore constitu-
tarn."

''We firmly believe and confess
with simplicity, that there is one only
true eternal God ... . who by
hid own almighty power simultaneous-
ly from the beginning of time made
out of nothing both parts of the crea-
tion, the spiritual and the corporeal,
tliat isy the angelical and the mundane :
and afterwards the human creature,
as it were o^ a nature in common with
botli, constituted from spirit and body.'

Nevertheless, by the principle of the
Thomist philosophy above cited, that

the lowest point of any nature touches
the highest of the nature beiieath it,
there may be something even in the
spiritual operation of the angels cog-
nate to material operation, and coming
within the sphere of the sensible. We
will venture to give a little sample of
scholastic theology on this head from
Billuart.

" It may be said with reason that the
angels operate two things in the celes-
tial empyrean. The first is the illu-
mination by which the inti'insic splen-
dor of the empyrean is perfected, ac-
cording to St. Thomas and various tes-
timonies of Holy Scripture in which
certain places are said to have been
sensibly illuminated by the angels.
For although an angel cannot imme-
diately produce alterative qualities, as
heat or cold, he can produce light, be-
cause light is a celestial quality and
the highest of corporeal qualities, and
the summit of the inferior nature is
touched by the superior nature.

"In the second place, the angels
operate on the empyrean heaven, so
that it may more perfectly and effica-
ciously communicate a suitable perpe-
tuity and stability to all inferior things.
For as the' supreme angels who are
peimanently stationed diere have an
influence over the intermediate and
lowest angels who are sent forth, al-
though they themselves are not sent
forth, so the empyrean heaven, al-
though it is itself motionless, commu-
nicates to those tilings which are in
motion the requisite stability and per-
manence in their being. And that this
may be done more efficaciously and
permanently the angels aid •by their
operation in it. For, the whole uni-
verse is one in unity of order ; and
this unity of order consists in that by
a certain arrangement corporeal things
are regulated by those which are spir-
itual, and inferior bodies by the supe-
rior ; therefore, as this order demands
that the empyrean spheres influence
the inferior ones, it demands also that
the angels influence the empyrciin
sphere." ' *

* De Aogelis. Diss. IL Art. I.

PrMemi of th^ Age.

Whatever may be thonght of this
as philosophy, it is certainly brilliantly
poetical, as is the whole treatise of
the learned Dominican from which it
is extracted. The physical theory of
the universe maintained by the scho-
lastics was a magnificent conception,
although it has been supplanted by a
sounder scientific hypothesis. There
appears to be no reason, however, for
rejecting the notion of angelic influence
over the movement of the universe.
The modem hypothesis of a central
point of revolution for the universe
being substituted for the ancient one of
the empyrean, the entire scholastic
theory of the influence of the angels
upon the exterior order of the universe
may remain untouched in its intrinsic
probability.

The consideration of man has been
reserved, because, although he is in-
ferior to the angels in intelligence, he
sums up in himself the three grades of
exi8tenc<f, and therefore the considera-
tion of the three as distinct ought to
precede the consideration of their com-
position in the complex himian nature.
The human nature includes in itself
the material, vegetative, animal, and
intelligent natures, which represent re-
S[)ectively the divine esse, vivere, and
intelligere. For this reason man is
called a microcosm or universe in min-
iature. In certain special perfections
of the material, sentient, and intelli-
gent natures, he is inferior to each ;
but the combination of all gives him a
peculiar excellence and completeness,
and qualifies him to stand in the most
immodiate relation to the final cause of
the universe, or to the consummation
of its end.

What this end is, we must now more
closely examine. It is plain at first
sight that this end must be attained by
creation through its intelligent por-
tion, or through the angelic and hu-
man natures. As God is final cause
as well as first cause ; of necessity,
these intelligent natures in themselves,
and all Inferior natures through them,
must, in some way, terminate on God

as their ultimate end. G<id is fioil
cause as the supreme good participatod
in and attained to by the crettioD,
through the overflow of the plenitude
of the divine being. The divine com-
placency in this voluntary overflow of
' the fount of being and good was the
ultimate and determining motive to
the creative act. The ^i^ood of being
thus given is a similitude of the divine
esse, vivere, and inUUigere. As it is
real, or existence in act, it must copy,
as far as its grade of existence per
mits, the most pure act of God in the
blessed Trinity. That is, the creature
must reflect from its own essence an
image of the divine essence, or a cre-
ated similitude of the uncreated Word,
in which its existence is completed and
its act consummated. In the material
world this is a mere dead image, like
the representation of a living form
made by a statue or picture. In the
sentient world, so far as we can under-
stand this most inscrutable and baf^
fling of all parts of the creation, there
is an apprehension by the sensitive
soul of a kind of shadow of the intel-
ligible object in sensible forms, and the
imperfect resemblance of the life and
felicity of an intelligent nature which
corresponds to this imperfect appre-
hension. In the intelligent creature,
its spiritual essence, by virtue of the
rationality in which it is created, and
is its constitutive principle, reflects an
image of the divine Word in the con-
templation of which its intelligent life
is completed. So far as intelligent na-
ture is merely potential, it is potential
to this act of intelligent life ; and when
its potentiality is reduced to act, so as
to produce the nearest similitude to
the divine intelligence in act, which
God has determined to create, intelli-
gent nature, and in it all nature, has at-
tained its finality. Intelligent nature
has attained the highest good attain-
able ; and, the different intelligent spe-
cies and individuals existing together
in due order and harmony in the par-
ticipation of the common good, with
all inferior grades of existence sub*

Probiemg of the Age.

«diiialcd to them, the vniTerse has
UDitj and is determined to a common
final end.

Thus, ereatkm returns hock to the
principle from which it proceeded bj
the consummation of the creative act.
As the Father is united to the Word
in the Holy Spirit, or in love and com-
placencj, so the creation is united to
God bj the possession of good and
the complacency of God in this good.
It is actualized in the intelligent na-
ture capable of knowing and loving
God, and therefore having a simili-
tude to the Son or Word. When it
is ascertained what the highest union
to the Father, or that approaching
nearest to the union of the Son to him
of which created nature is capable, is,
i it will be ascertained what is the end
metaphjaically final to which created
nature can attain, if God wills to bring
it to the sammit of possibDity. When
it is ascertained what this summit of
possibility is, it is ascertained what
the end of creation is which is meta-
physically final ; and when it is ascer^
tamed how far toward this summit
God has actually determined to ele-
vate luB creation, it is ascertained what
is the end of creation actually final,
and how far it coincides with the end
metaphysically final.

This knowledge cannot be deduced
from any first principle given to reason.
It is conununicated by revelation, and
by this revelation we learn that God
has determined to bring the creation to
the end metaphysically final in the in-
carnation of the Word.

The revelation of the mystery of the
Incarnation is concomitant with the re-
velation of the mystery of the Trinity ;
therefore, in the creed, the same terms
which propose the dogma that the Word
is of God and is God, propose the dog-
ma that the Word is incamato in hu-
man nature. The name given to the
Second Pertoi in the Trinity, in the
creed, Jesus Christ, is the name
which he assumed with his human na-
ture. ^ £t in unum Dominum nos-
trum, Jesnm Christum Filium Dei
unigeoitom, Deum de Deo, Lumen de

Lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero,
genitum non factum, consubstantial-
em Patri, per quern onmia facta sunt.
Qui propter nos homines et propter
nostram salutem descendit de coelis, ct
incamatus est etiam pro nobis de Spirl-
tu Sancto ex Maria Yirgine, et homo
factus est**

" And in one Jesus Christ our Lord,
the only begotten Son of God, God of
Grod, Light of Light, very God of very
Grod, begotten not made, consubstantial
with the Father, by whom all things
were made. Who, for us men, and
for our salvation, descended from
heaven, and was incarnate also for us
by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary,
and was made man."

The mystery of the incarnation pre-
sents to us the idea, that the Word has
assumed human nature, not by assum-
ing all the individuals of the race, but
by assuming humanity individuated in
one perfect soul and body into a union
with his divine nature, in which it
terminates upon his divine person as
the final complement of its existence,
without any confusion of its distinct
essence with the divine essence to
which it is united. By this union, the
Word is a theandric person, or one
divine person in two natures, divine
and human, really distinct from each
other in essence and existence, but
with one common principle of imputa-
bility to which their attributes and
operation are to be ascribed. This is
the union, called in theological lan-
guage hypostatic, of the creature to
the Creator, which is metaphysically
final, or fi^al to the divine intelligence
and power ; beyond which there is no
idea in God of a possible act ad extra^
and which is next in order to the pro-
cession of the divine persons ad intra.
Through this hypostatic union, created
nature participates with the uncreated
nature impersonated in the Son in the
relation to the Father as principle, and
the Holy Spirit as consummation, of
intelligence and love ; that is, in the di-
vine iSfe and beatitude. The incarna-
tion having been in the view and pur-
pose of Ahnighty God from eternity.

Miguel de Cervtmies y Saavedra,

as the ultimatum of his wisdom and
omnipotence, is the apex of the crea-
tive act, or the terminus at which the
creative act reaches the summit of
possibility. In it the creation returns
to Grod as final cause, from whom it
proceeds as first cause, in a mode
which is metaphysicallj finaL It is

therefore certain that God, in his eter-
nal, creative purpose, determined the
universe to an end metaphjsicalij
final ; and that this end is attained in
the incarnation, or the union of created
with uncreated nature in the person of
the Word.

From The Dublin Uniyeraity Magazine.

l^HGUEL DE CERVANTES Y SAAVEDRA.

NoTWiTHSTANDiNO the valuc of the
precious metals extracted from the
American mines, the Spanish exche-
quer had not been in a satisfactory
condition for a long time. AVar had
scourged the kingdom since the con-
quest by the Moors, Fenlinand and
Isabella had indeed dislodged them
and their unlucky King Boabdil from
their little paradise in Granada and
AndaluQia, about a century before the
poor Don made his first sally ; but it
was at a dread sacrifice of money and
men's lives. Charles V. was engaged
in ruinous wars during the greater
part of his reign, and Philip II., his
successor (unwillingly indeed), was put
to trouble and expense while uniting
with other Christian powers to pre-
vent the ferocious sultan from bring-
ing all Europe under the Mussulman
yoke. The victory of Lepanto, gained
by his half-brother, Don John, some-
what crippled the Sublime Porte and
the terrible renegade Uchali, but did
not prevent the Algerine and other
African pirates from doing infinite mis-
chief to all the Christian states bor-
dering the Mediterranean. Ceaseless-
ly they intercepted their merchant ves-
sels, made booty of the freight and
slaves of the crew, and obliged all in
the rank of merchants or gentlemen

to find heavy ransoms. Now what
should have prevented Spain and
France and the Italian kingdoms from
collecting a large fleet and army at
any one time, and battering down the
strongholds of these ruthless plunder-
ers, and eftectually putting it out of
their power to annoy their Christian
neighbors ? Philip was often urged to
co-operate in such a good work, but he
preferred to ex|)end time and money,
and his subjects' blood and property,
on other projects.

An extract from the work mention-
ed below,* in reference to the state of
Spain toward the latter years of Phil-
ip II., is well worth transcribing. The
author is speaking of Cervantes in
prison, some time between 1598 and
1G03:

"lie distinctly perceived, throwp:h the
splendor and apparent unity of tlie Spanish
monarchy, a muttering and stormy confusion,
a thousand strange and opposed groupings ;
— politicians who in fact were mere favorite^,
austere gentlemen miied with galanl writer^
— grave inquisitors condemning errant Bohe-
mians, applying a barbarous law to barbarous
hordes, and cauterizing but not curing
wounds. Through this assemblage of con-
trasts he could see a wide separation between
the social classes. Two distinct groups ex-

• Michel de Cervantes, va Vie, son Temps, soa
(Eiivre Politlnne et LlUeraire. Far £inile CluMhfS.
Paris : Didier et Cie.

JUiffuel de Cervantes y Saavedra.

lOt united by any common idea or pym-
-tbe extra-social world of Gitanos
i), rogues, and mystics, whose lives
idependent, and that of the alcaida
Tegidore.

tween these two camps hovered a
population so frequently treated of in
1 letters, — the alguazil, the sacristan,
erter, the refugee, a hybrid people at-
to the law or the church, but affiliated
hampa (illegal bond of union) by
fir, by nature, by origin, or by in-

a country where poverty was every
creasing, necessity threw thousands
ay on a career of adventure. It de-
te<l Spain in exiling to the Indies her
Idiers. It flung away innumerable
les to the coast of Africa. It deci-
that nobility ercwhile so valiant, so
pride and patriotism. Impoverished
len soon formed a large class of hon-
[Mupers. They endured, with a stoi-
trely Spanish, the exigencies of honor
erty, along with the necessity of living
Dg useless to their country."

pity be awarded to the poor
Dum who took his promenade
ick in hand, to impress on his
that he had dined. Cervantes
) need to go beyond his family
>€tion« for materials for tliis

lold the hidalgo coming out of his
rith unquiet eye. His suspicious hu-
:Une8 him to believe that every one
his shoes are pieced, that perspiration
t marks on his hat, that his cloak is
>are, and that his stomach is empty.
s taken a draught of water within
doors, and just come forth displaying
ocritical toothpick, — dolorous and de-
exhibition, which has grown into a

itical principles and social insti-
3 prevalent during the long wars
sn the Christians and the Moors
still in vigor at the end of the
nth century, when the circum-
s of the country had undergone
ough change.

tiring the centuries when Spain
Higgling against the Arabs, the
condition of the nationality was
rity of blood and the Christian
The Old Christian (Christiano
, the irreproachable Castilian
could be intrusted with the de*

fenso of the soil or the government
of the country. And now when the
enemy was expelled the usage re-
mained. The alcaid (magistrate) did
not know the law, perhaps he could
not read, but ^ he had,' as he said, ' four
inches of the fat of an Old Christian
on his ribs, and that was sufBcient.' ''
In the interlude of the Election
of the Alcaids of Daganzo, Cervantes
specifies the personal gitls sufficient to
qualify for the post An elector pro-
posing Juan Verrouil, thus dwells on
his good qualities :

" At all events Juan Vcrrotul possesses
the most delicate discernment. The other
day, taking a cup of wine with me, he ob-
served that it smacked of wood, of leather,
and of iron. Well, when we got to the bot-
tom of the pitcher, what did we discover but
a key fastened by a strap or leather to a
piece of wood I

^''Secretary. — Wonderful ability, rare ge-
nius. Such a man might rule Alams, Cazal-
la, ay even Esquivias."

Francis de Humillos is considered
fit for the magistracy because of his
nearness in soling a shoe. Michael
Jarret is voted worthy, as he shoots an
arrow like any eagle. Peter the Frog
knows every word of the ballad of the
" Dog of Alva" without missing one,
but Uumillos stands the examination
with rather more credit than the rest ;
he knows the four prayers, and
says them four or five times per
week.

The number of wandering gipsies
and brigands and thieves of all descrip-
tion was out of all rational proportion
with the honest and respectable popu-
lation. These were united under the
hampa, and it was a matter of extreme
difficulty to obtain information against
any delinquent from a brother of the
order.

Little is said about the mercantile
or manufacturing classes in books con-
nected with the time of Cervantes.
Enough is told of the pride, and lux-
ury, and generally perverted tastes of
the great, and hints are given of the
kind and considerate demeanor of the
nobility residing on their estates to
their dependents.

Miguel ds Cervantes y Scuwedrtu

DON QUIXOTE'S FREDECE880B8.

Spain 18 not the only country which
for a time has set an extravagant esti-
mate on some books or class of books.
Even in our own days and in those of
the last generation, have not literary
furors prevailed for picturesque ban-
ditti, and feudal castles, and caverns,
and awful noises in vast and dimly
lighted bedchambers, for poetry beck-
oning its victims to despair and sui-
cide, for novels stamped with the silver
fork of high life, and lastly, for those
which enlarge on the physiology of
forbidden fruit ? M. Chasles will
pleasantly explain the literary pen-
chante of the peninsula two hundred
and sixty < dd years since :

** We have seen the France of the seven-
teenth century enthusiastic for the Astrea
and the Clelia,* and the Engl.tnd of the
eighteenth assume shield and spear for Cla-
riiwa IIarlowe,f but in 1608 and in Spain, the
extraordinary popularity of the Ainadises
resembled a brain fever at which no one
dared laugh. One day a certain nobleman
comiiip; lionie found his wife in tears. * What
is the matter ? What bad news have you
lieani V * My dear, Amadis is dead.' They
could not suffer the writers to put their he-
roes to death. The infant Don Alonzo per-
Monally interceded with the author of the
I'ortugucHe Amadis to rewrite the chapter in
which the Signora Briolana was sacrificed.
These creatures of the imagination assumed
a personal reality among the people of that
era in the mind of every one. Every one was
convinced that Arthur of Britain would one
day return among men. Julian of Castile,
who wrote in 1587, affirmed (could we be-
lieve him) that when Philip II. espoused
Mary of England, ho was obliged to reserve
the claims of King Arthur, and engage to
yield him the throne when he returned.
Chivalrio fictions became an article of faith.
A certain gentleman, Simon de Silreyra,
swore one day on the Iloly Gospel that be
held the history of Amadis do Gaul X for
true and certain.**

* For infonnaUon oonoeralnff tbeM slow ro-
mances And their oontempomrloe, and the frreat
lionore d*Urfy. tee UnlTenltv Manilne for Feb-
ruary, 18U.

t A Kcho«>I of simple and warm-hearted worklni;-
class folk nightly assembled at a forge in Windsor to
hear the perilous trials of Pamela read out to them.
They watched with nnfUgginfC Interest her nrofress
throuKh her ticklish trials, and showed their ioy in
her Anal triumph by running in a body to the choroh
and ringing the bells.

X This first and best of the chlralrlc roraoDceswos
composed by Tasco de Lobcira of Oporto, who died
in \4M. It was written between IMS and 186T, and
first printed between 149S and IfiOOi Thore Is •one

Such were a few cbnracteristies d
Spanish life when CerTantes thougiit
of writing his Don Quixote. In Iiis
numerous works he had it in purpose
to improve the state of things in his
native country, and to correct this < r
that abuse, but he obtained no striking
success till the publication of this his
greatest work. Alas ! while it estab-
lished his character as master in liter-
ature, it excited enmities and troubles
in abundance.

YOUTH OF CERVANTBS.

Miguel de Cervantes j Saavedra
was bom in 1547 at Alcala de Henar-
ks. His parents, both of gentle birth,
were Kodrigo de Cervantes and Leon-
or de Cortinas. Their other children
bom before Michael were • Rodrigo,
Andrea, and Luisa. His family be-
longed to the class of impoverished
gentlefolk, poor but intensely proud of
their descent from one of those hardy
mountaineers the Saavedras, who, five
centuries before, so heroically defended
the northem portion of Spain against
the Moors. While the hereditary pos-
sessions were growing less and less,
the heads of the family would endeav-
or to compensate for present priva-
tions, by relating to their children the
noble deeds and the great estates of
their ancestors.

Cervantes^ patemal roof was proba-
bly surrounded by some of the pater-
nal fields, and it is likely that the do-
mestic economy was similar to that de-
scribed in the first chapter of Don
Quixote, where translators have still
lefl us at a loss as to the Saturday's
fare, duelos y quebrantoe (griefs and
groans), some, guessing it to be eggs
and bacon ; others, a dish of lentils ;
others, brains fried in oil ; others, the
giblets of fowl.

Alcala de Henares* was worthy to
be the birthplace of Spain's best writer.
The archbishops of Toledo owned a
palace there, and there the great Car-
dinal Ximenes, an ex-student of its

* From the Arahio AUCala^tl-Kahr^ *«ti»
chatooo bj tha iItcx;**

iKgud de Cgrvantes y Saavedra.

retamed when somewhat un-
Joud, and prepared his world-

poljglot Bible in Hebrew,
"Greek, and Latin. From the
m the great scholar and states-
de the town his permanent resi-
it aimed to become, and did
llj become, the intellectual me-
of the native country of Cer-

It possessed a uiiiversity,
I colleges, thirty-eight church-
irorks of art in profusion,
ler debarred by poverty or neg-

the last an unlikely supposi-
rvantes did not graduate in the
ty of Alcala or in any other,
nstance that occasioned him
ortification in his manhood and
d age. Emilc Chasles thus
» himself on this subject :

;rmduAted took their revenge. When
I acquired celebrity thej recollected
had ta]cen no degree. When he
I employ they applied to him by way
brand the epithet, Ingenio Lego.
lot of ours,' said they ; * he is not a
The day when he attracted the at-
* all Europe their anger was excess-
is the writer who possessed talent
permission, and genius without a

CerTantes gaily replied, that he
heir pedantic learning, their books
with quotations, the compliments

each other in Greek, their erudi-
r marginal notes, their doctors' de-
; that he himself was naturally lazy,
not care to search in authors for
was able to say without them ; and
at when there is a dull or fooli:ih
be expressed, it will do in Spanish
in Latin."

as smarting under the con-
' the learned asses of his day
riting the preface to his Don

the story of Don Quixote is as
rush ! Ah, if the author could do
—cite at the head of the book a

authorities in alphabetic order,
Dg with Aristotle and ending with
I or ZoilusI But the poor Cer-
I find nothing of all this. There
e paper before him, the pen behind
18 elbow on the table, his cheek in
and himself all unable to discover

•enteaoes or ingenious trifles to

■abject Happily a humorous and

friend enters and brings relief.

■id he, ' and continue to quote ; Uie

VOL. IV. 2

first sentence that comes to hand will an-
swer. ** Pallida mors »quo pede" is as good
as another. Horace will come in well any-
where, and you can even make use of the Holy
Scriptures. The giant GoUas or Goliath
was a Philistine, whom David the shepherd
slew with a stone from a sling in the valley
of Terebinthus, as is related In the Book of
Kings in the chapter where it is to be
found.' "

THE FIB8T FLATS AT WHICH HB ASSISTED..

The earliest instructors of our brave
romancer and poet were the excellent
clergyman Juan Lopez de Hoyos, who
took pride and pleasure in expanding
the intellects of dear-headed pupils,
and the talented strolling actor, Lopede
Rueda, who at a time (middle of six-
teenth century) when neither Alcala
nor even Madrid could boast a suitably
appointed theatre, went from town to
town, and amused the inhabitants from
his rudely contrived stage. This con-
sisted of a platform of loose planks
supported by trestles, and a curtain as
respectable as could be afforded, do-
ing duty as permanent scene, and
afibrding a hiding-place behind it to
the actors when not performing, and to
the few musicians who occasionally
chanted some romantic ballad.

Rueda had been in his youth a gold-
beater at SeviDe, whence, finding in
himself a strong vocation for the
mimetic art, he made his escape, carry-
ing some of the popular satiric stories
in his head, and moulding them into
farces. Uis troupe consisted of three
or four male actors, one or two occa-
sionally presenting female characters,
and these were found sufficient to pre-
sent a simple story in action, the mana-
ger himself being an actor of rare abili-
ty. These open air performances took
a very strong hold on Cervantes* imag-
ination. An outline is given of one of
these acted fables, the precursors of
the voluminous repertory furnished
some years later by Lope de Vega.

Rueda himself, presenting an old la-
borer, tired and wet, and carrying a
fagot, appears before his door, and calls
on his wife, who should have his supper
ready. Ifis daughter (represented by

Miguel de Cervantei y Saavedra.

a beardless jouth) acquaints bim tbat
sbe is helping a neighbor at her skeins
of silk. She is called, and a fierce
scolding match ensues, he demanding
his supper and vaunting the severitj
of his labor, she vilifying the fagot
he has brought home. By-and-by the
discourse falls on a little plantation of
oHve trees which he has just put down,
and the Signora Agueda de Toruegano
forgets her an<;er in the anticipation of
the large profits to accrue from her
seedlings :

" Wife. — Do you know, my dear, what Fro
been just thinking? In six or Pcven years
our little plantation will produce four or five
fan^ques (about fifleen barrelfi) of olires, and
putting down a plant now and again, we shall
have a noble field all in full bearing in twen-
ty-five or thirty years.

** ^tM6am/.— Nothing more likely ; it will
be a wonder in the neighborhood.

•♦lFt/«.—ril gather the fruit, you'll take
them to market on the ass, and Menciguela
(the daughter) will sell them ; but mind what
I tell you, girl ! you must not sell them a
maravedi less than two reals of Castile the
celcmin (bushel).

" //M»6an</.— Two reals of Castile!
conscience ! a real and a half * will be a fair
price.

*» Ifi/f.— Ah, hold your tongue I They
are the very best kind — olives of Cordova.

** Ilmband. — ^Even so, a real and a<balf is
quite enough.

" Ifi/e.— Ah, don't bother my head!
Daughter, you have heard me ; two reals of
Castile, no less.

" /^i«6an</.— Come here, child. What will
you ask — the bushel ?

^^ Daughter. — Whatever you please, fa-
ther.

'* Hutband, — Just a real and a half.

"2>a»i^A/er.— Yes, father.

** Mother. — ^Yea, father ! Come here to me.
How will you sell them the bushel ?

" Daitahter. — ^Whatever you say, mother.

" FeUher, — I promise you, my lass, two
hundred stripes of the stirrup leathers, if
you don*t mind my directions. Now what'U
be the price ?

** Daughter. — Whatever you like, father.

*^ Mother. — How! Ah, here's for your
' whatever you like.' (She beatt her,) Take
that, and maybe it'll teadi you to disobey
me.

»* Father.-^Lei the child alone.

** Daughter. — Ah, mother, mother, don't kill
me ! (C'riet out; a neighbor entert.)

• This has been lobrtttated for AfUen denien.
about thTM futhlBfi, tb« aaooat la M. Chaaki^

** .Vft^A^or.— What.*9 this, what's Cbb?
Why do you beat the little gM ?

*' m/e.— Ah, sir, it's this wasteall that
wants to give awav all we have for nothing.
He'll put us out of house and home. (Mirei
as lam as walnuts !

^ luuband. — I swear by the bones of my
ancestors that they are no bigger than gnini
of millet

" Wife.— I say they are.

" Nueband. — I say they're not

" Neighbor, — Will you please, ma'am, to f;o
hiside? I undertake to make all ri^t (Ski
enter$ the houee.) Now, my friend, expltin
this matter. Let us see your olives. U yoQ
have twenty fandgues, I will purchase all

** Father.^Yon don'^ exactly comprebeod.
The fact is — do you see ? — and to tdl the
honest truth, the olives are not just in the
house, though they are ours.

" Neighbor. — No matter. Sure It's easy to
get them brought here. Fll buy them at a
fair price.

** Daughter, — Hy mother says she mnstgH
two reals* the bushel.

" JVeiVyAAor.— That's rather dear.

** /ViM«-.— Now isn't it, sir?

** Daughter. — My father only asks a real
and a half.

*' Neighbor. — Let ns see a sample.

'* Ilufband.— Ah, don't ask to talk aboat
it farther. I have to-day put down a small
plot of olives. Hy wife says that within
seven or eight years we'll be able to gather
four or five fandgues of fruit from them. She
is to collect them, I to take them on the ass
to market, and our danshter to sell thein,
and she must not take less than two reals.
She says yes, I say no, and that's the whole
of it

" Neiglihor. — A nice affiur, by my faith !
The olives are hardly planted, and yet your
daughter has been made to cry and roar about
them.

*' Daughter. — Very true Indeed, sir, what
you say.

^^ Father. — Don't cry any more, Mend-
gucla. Neighbor, this little body is worth
her weight in gold. Go, lay the toble, child.
You must have an apron out of the very
first money I get for the olives.

'^Neighbor. — Good-by, my fHend; go in
and be agreeable with your wife.

" i'WA^^r.— Good-by, sir. (He and hiM
fhter qo in,)

Neighbor, alone. — It must bo owned that
some things happen here below beyond be-
lief. Ouf I quarrel about olires before tliey're
in existence !" •

The reader will easily recognize the

* The Spaniards keep their accounts in plantres
reals, and maniTedl*, the flnt-named being worth
about 8#. 6d. of oor money. Tbirty-fowr Biaravedia
make a real, eight reals a piastre. The real men-
tioned In the text was probably a ptaot of eight or
piastre.

Miguel de Cervantes y Saanedreu

"Haidwith the milking paU" at the
bottom of this illustrmtion. Before the
prodaction of any of the regalar pieces
of De Vega, or Calderon, or Alarcon,
or Tirso de Molina, the easily pleased
folk- of country or town were thor-
ooghlj satisfied with Rueda's reper-
tory. When the talented stroller died
in 1567, he was honored with a costly
funeral, and solemnly interred in the
eathedml of Cordova. Strange con-
trast between his posthumous fortune
and that of Moli^ I

The impression made on Cervantes
by the peHbrmances on Rueda's plat-
form was strong and lasting. He ever
retained a high respect for the talent
of observation, the native genius and
the good sense of Lope de Rueda.

In the preface to his own plays, Cer-
vantes left an inventory of the theatri-
cal properties of the strolling estab-
lishments in his youth :

" All the materialB of representation were
ooDtained in a sack. They were made up of
four jackets of sheepekin, laced with gilt
leather, lour beards, as many wigs, fuur shep-
herd^s crooks. The comedies consisted of
edogoes or colloquies between two or three
riie^^ierds and one shepherdess. They pro-
longed the entertainments by means of in-
teriudes, such as that of the Negrtu^ the
Rmfian, the jFW, or that of the BUeayan^ —
four personages plajed by Lope as well as
many others, and all with the greatest per-
fection and the happiest natural ability that
can be imagined."

One evening in the old age of Cer-
vantes, the company around him were
discussing the living actors and the
present condition of the theatre.
Among other things they treated of
the in&ncy of the Spanish stage, and
the artist who first essayed to make it
something better than a platform for
tumbling. Cervantes at once brought
forward the claims of his early master :

** I remember having seen play the great
comedian Lope de Rueda, a man disdnguished
for his intelligence and his style of acting.
He excelled in pastoral poetry. In that de-
partment no one then or since has shown him-
•elf his superior. Though then a child, and
mable to appreciate the merit of his rerses,
Berertlieless when I occasionally repeat some
•onpleU that have remained in my memory, I
find that my Impreaiion of hifr' ability is cor-

mS FIRST STEP TS LIFE.

The young admirer of Lope dc
Rueda exhibited in his temperament
and appearance more of the soldier
than the poet With his high fore-
head, his arched eyebrows, his huir
flung behind, his firm-set mouth, he
seemed to present little of the imagi-
native dreamer. However, there was
that in the delicate contours of the
countenance, in the «earchuig look, in
the fire of the large dark eyes, which
betrayed the ironical powers of the
observant man of genius. No doubt
he had the literary instincts somewhat
developed by the practical lessons of
Rueda, but military aspirations had
the ascendant for the time. Though
his brother Rodrigo had departed for
the war in Flanders, and it seemed as
if he was destined to remain at home
with his family, fate and inclination
were against this arrangement. How-
ever, the first step he took in life was
not in the direction of the battle-field.
An Italian cardinal took him to Rome
in quality of secretary. The brave
Don John, half-brother of Philip II.,
was appointed general of the league
arming against the Grand Turk at the
same time, and the young and ardent
Miguel eagerly took arms under him,
and was present at the memorable
naval engagement of Lepanto. Philip
did not enter with much good-will in-
to this strife, and prevented any ad-
vantages that might result from the
glorious victory by shortly withdraw-
ing his brother from the command of
the allied forces of Christendom. The
enthusiastic young soldier received
three wounds as well as a broken arm
in the fight. This was in the year
1571, and until 1575 we find Cervan-
tes attending Don John in his conten-
tions with the Mohammedan powers on
the coast of Africa, in which the cliiv-
alric commander was hampered by the
ill-will of his brother, Philip IL He
went into the Low Countries much
against his will, and after several vic-
tories met a premature death there
in 1 5 78, when only thurty-two years old.

Mgml de Cefvante$ y Saavedru.

CAPrn^B IN AXOffiKS.

Cervantes receivetl from \m great-
fouled commander written testimonials
of his valiant conduct and moml worth,
atjd sailed for Spain tVoiii Naplea in
the year 1578. On the voya;?e tbe
ve-smel was altacketl by tliree Turkish
j^alliots ; those who fell not in the en-
gagement were made pri^uncrs, and
our hero becume die slave of a lame
renegade called the ** Cripple/' in
Arabict Dali I^Iami.

The Algerians, rigid IMussnlmanB aa
they were, killed as few Chrislkns in
these altaekii aa they coulih Slaves
and ransoms were the cherished objects
of their quc8t.«i, and as soon as could
be aJler the landing in Algiers, tlic
clai^Bifieiition was made of *' gentles and
etMnnions.'* The eaptora were cunnmg
in I heir generation, and this was the
pmce!*s adapted for the eidianeeraent
of their live property.

The c^ijilive^a owner proceeded with
wonderful skill to raine the value of
his goods. While the slave declared
his (wverty, and lowered his station in
order to lower the terms of his ransom,
the master affected to treat his victim
with the greatest resj^K^ct. lie gave
him almost enough of nourishment, aod
IHofessed he was ruining himself for
the other's advantage through pure
deference and good-wHll ; and slipped in
a w^ord as to his hopes of being re-
paid Ibr his outhiy. The prisoner
might undervalue himself as much as
he chose, ^ he was merely a private
soldier/* Ah, his master knew better ;
tlie man of the muks was a general,
the man before the mast a caballerOj
the simple pnest an archbishop.

" * A« for ID*?/ SAid the captive Dr, So?&,
* who nm but a poor clerk, tUcy rondo mo
bishop by their own proper authority, &nd
in pltnitu'dinf pol^tattJt. Afterward.^ they ap-
poiiiusl rae vho private aod canlitlential seo-
rctary of the Pope. They assureil pie that
I bad been for eight daya cloaeied with His
iloUnesa in a chain beri where we di^uased
in the roo»t profound aecitwy the entire affairs
of Christendom. Then they created roc car-
dinal, afterwards governor of Gastel Na<>TO
al Naples ; and al thia present moment I am
ooofesBor to Uor Mi^esty the Queca of Spun.*

es. "^

In vain Dr. Sosa renonnoei tJiti* liOMf.
They produced witnesses, both Gbikfoi
ai)U Turk,«, who swore to 1istlo|( wtn \u»
officiating as cardinal orgovcrnor*^

The letterg of "Don John ttt Au*tr«i
having bee a found on CervantcSt lli^'
poor soldier of Lepanto beeameat once
a great lord, from w horn a I&rge nui-
som might be expected* Thev begtw
with genuflexions, and frequently
ended with the scourge, not in lii*
case, however. Manj poor wretchcf,
to aave themselves from the horrible
treatment thej endured, or ex|)eekd
to endure, became Mohammediins, on
which they immediately obtained their
liberty, were set on horseback^ with
fitly Janissaries on foot, serving u
corlege, the king defraying the exijenie
of the ceremony, bestowing wires^
the hopeful eonverts, and offei
them places among his Janissaries.

Cervatites became the centre, round
which the hopes of many poor cap-
tives were grouped, lie niade sevend
attempts at evasion, and, strange to
say, was not in any instance punished
by hi a otherwise cruel roaster*

Several Christians enjoying the
benefit of safe conduct were free to
come and j?o among these A]getines»
and the RtMiemjitorist Fathers enjoyed
thorough freedom, as throujib them the
ransoms wei-e chiefly effe^sted. A
Spant.%h gentleman being set at Liberty ^
carried a letter from our hero home
to his family, and in consequence the
brave old hidalgo, his father, mort-
gaged his little estate* took the dowries
of his two daughters, and forwarded
all to his fion for the liberation of him-
gelf and his brother, w ho wa^ al80 in
captivity. When he presented him-
self to Dali Mami with Ihis sum in
his handa the renegade cripple only
laughed at him* lie and Eodrtgo
were men of too much importance to
be ransomed for so trifling a sum.

The cruel viceroy of Algiers Imving
spent his allotted time in chat*ge of that
tie&i of vultures, was replaced bj a
governor still more cruel, under wbofii
Cervantes made a desperate effort to
escape^ and carry off forty or fifty tel-

Miguel de Ceitxtntet y Saaxtdnu

low-capdves with him. He paid his
brother^B ransom, and he, when set at
lihertj, managed to send a ressel near
the spot where Miguel had his com-
panions in safety in a grotto of a cer-
tain garden. Through some misman-
agement the descent failed, and the
liiding-phice was revealed bj the
treachery of a trusted individuaL All
were brought before the new Viceroy
Hassan, and Cervantes avowed him-
self the chief and only plotter among
them. Hassan used flattery, promises,
and threats to induce the intrepid
Spaniard to criminate a certain brother
Bedemptorist as privy to the plot, in
Older that he might come at a much
coveted sum of money which be knew
to be in his possession. All was in
vain. Cervantes was not to be turned
from the path of loyalty, and when
every one expected sentence of death
to be pronounced on him at the mo-
ment, Hassan became suddenly cool,
and merely ordered him to be re-
moved.

The bagnio of Hassan was a suffi-
ciently wretched place, but while our
hero sojourned there, he made it as
cheerful as he could by composing
poetical pieces and reciting them, and
getting up a Spanish comedy. There
were forty priests in it at the time, and
these performed their clerical duties as
if at liberty. They celebrated mass,
administered holy comm union, and
preached every Sunday. When Christ-
mas approached, he arranged a mys-
tery, such as he had seen performed
in his native Alcala under the direc-
tion of tlie ingenious Lope de Rueda.
All were prepared, — the shepherds'
dresses, the crib, the stable, etc ; the
guardian admitting outsiders at a small
charge, and a shepherd reciting the
opening verses of the entertainment,
when a Moor entered in hot haste, and
shouted out to all to look to their
safety, as the Janissaries were rushing
through the streets, and killing the
Christians. Some clouds on the
Dorthem horizon had been taken for
the Christian fleet under Don John,
and the terrible guards determined to

put it out of the Christian captives'
power to aid the attack. The massa-
cre ceased on the clearing away of
the vapors.

About that time, Philip H. was col-
lecting a large naval force in the
Mediterranean for the ostensible pur-
pose of storming Algiers, though in
reality his intent was merely to seize
on the kingdom of Portugal. Its ro-
mantic sovereign, Don Sebastian, the
hero of one of Miss Porter's romances,
had just been slain in Morocco, and
his successor Heniy, whose days
were numbered, was unable to cross
his projects. Tiie report of Philip's
meditated descent inspired Cervantes
with a project of a general rising of
the slaves. He even addressed to the
sombre king, through his secretary
Mateo Yasquez, a remonstrance and
encouragement, of which we present a
few extracts :

*' High and powerful lord, let the wrath of
thy soul be enkindled. Here the garrison is
numerous, but without strength, without
ramparts, without shelter. Every Christian
is on the alert ; every Mussulman is watchino;
for the appearance of the fleet as the signal
for flight Twenty thousand Christians are
in this prison, the key of which is in your
hands. We all, with clasped hands, ou
bended knees, and with stifled sobs, and un-
der severe tortures," beseech thee, puissant
lord, to turn your pitying looks towards us,
your born subjects, who lie groaning here.
Let tlie work courageously begun by your
much loved father bo achieved by your
hand."

Hassan employed the slaves in
building fortifications for his garrison,
but he kept Cervantes strictly guarded.
** When my disabled Spaniard," said
he, '* is under guard, I am sure of the
city, the prisoners, and the port."
But though well watched, the rest-
less captive made three other attempts
at escape, for each of which he was
to receive, but did not, two thousand
bastinadoes. In the fourth attempt,
two merchants who were compromisf d,
and feared he might betray them un-
der the torture, oflTered to pay his
ransom, and thus secure his departure,
but he did not accept the terms. He
braved the examination, and would

Mtgiiel iJevmrnUn y Saavedra,

not reveal the names of any accom-
plices except four who wei*e already
out of danger. Strange to Ray» even
tliii^ time be escaped without ptiniph-
tnent* A renegade, Mahnipillo, hif^li
in Hassan's contideiice, and who
feems to have entertiiincd great es-
teem for the fearless and generous
chiiracter of Cervantes, probablv aav-
etl his back sundry Btripes on these
difr_^rent occasions* On this subject
we quote some lines from M, Chasles ;

" £lllicr through tho intt'rference of MaltrA'
l»illi> or the influence exercised Uv the noble
rhiiruclcr of Ccrraut«s on uU urouiid him,
i\\\^ time agnin he was spAred by Uasflan.
How WAS he eaftbled to mAiiy times to g«-
iM{ie h\& ma^ter^B rftge y In followinu^ hi9
fortunes through these rears of inal, V am
pti-uck by the mysterious ioHuciice of his
noble cb»racter on tho events and the per-
i»oni by whom he was surrounded. In the
(nidjtt of A diTer^e population incessantly
chungiiig, among a crowd of goUk'ni *nd
t.ijitive doctoral, he occupied an exccption.il
0ttition« Brothen* of Mcfcy, Chriiitian mer-
chants^ renegades, all recognize in him a
nioml flupertority. ' Every one,' says the
eye*witiie«8 Pedrosa, ^admired hia courage
and hii disposiiion/ *'

The acts of kindness done by tho
renegades to (be captives were not
small nor few. Nearly all of tliem
had confonned through the immediate
pmspect of promotion, or fear of pun-
ij^liment, and there was scarcely a con-
^r'letitioiw Mussulman among every
hundred of thenu In general they
wero anxious to obtain from the cai>-
tives alKiut to be ransomed certificares
of their own good offices towards
them* These were intended to be
available for some possible futuro con-
tingencies.

The |K»or sorrowful father continued
lo make unavailing efforts for bis ran-
He even disturbed the court
officials with representations of his
son s services and sufferings ; but
*• circumlocution '* was a word under-
stood even in Madrid and in the days
of Philip IL The afflicted and ira-
poverished gentleman died in dragging
his stiit through the lazy and unpatri-
otic officials, and if ever a death re-
sulted from heartbreak hia was one.

Still his mother, his bi

and bis sister Andrea en

selves, and dispatched to Algler* 800
crowns. A strong representauon at
the cotjrt insured in Jiddiiion I
amount of a e^irgo then consigned
Algiers, which produced only si:
ducats, say £30» These sums wi
not sufficient, and the heart sick
tivc would have been carried by Hi
san lo Consmntinopla, his vieeroyi
having expiredj only for the defidi
being niJAde up by the Brotliem of
Mercy, Christian merchants, etc., who
were ** tightly furged " for thai pur*
pose by the good-tiearted and zealous
brother 8U|)erior, Gil. This prnri-
dential redemption occurred m 15B0.

Bi'foit^ he quilled his alxxle of lirilc
ease he luid the forethought to de-
mand a public 8 cm tiny of his conduct
by the Christian authorities. Wit-
nesses in great number cjime forward
to testify to his worth. The foUotviog
facts were irrevocably established.
He had rescued one man from slavery
only for the treachery of Blanco.
The pure morality of his life was at-
tested by a genlleman of high stand-
ing. Others! proved his many acts of
charity to the unfortunate and to
childiTn, all done as secretly as possi-
ble. He luid contrived the escape of
five captives. A gentleman, Don
Diego (James) de Benavides, fiir-
nisheil this testimony :

**0n coming here from Constanti-
nople, I asked if there were in the
city any gentlemen by birth, I ww
told there was one in particulars^
niaTi of honor, noble, virtuous, well-
born, the friend of caballeroes, to tvit,
Michael de Ccr\'antes. 1 paid him a
visit* He sliared with me his c!
bcr, his clothes, his money- In hii
have found a father and a mother.

The detdarations of Brother Gil and
of Rev. I>r. Sosa solemnly confirmed
the facts brought forward by numertxis
captives, Sosa wrote his declaration
while still in irons, and avowed with
a mixture of dignity and feeling that
his principles would have prevented
him from allowing himself such intt-

inn m

haitt^J

JUigud de Garwrntei y Saavednu

macy with CSerrantes, had he not con-
sidered him in the light of an earnest
Christian, liable to martyrdom at anj
moment.

A scrutiny was also made in Spain
at the request of the elder Cervantes,
in 1578, and both the justifying docu-
ments, signed by notaries, are still in
existence*

**Ah!" aajB Haedo (himself an eye-wit-
ness of the sufferings uf the Christians in
tliat Tulture's nest), ** it had been a fortun-
ate thing for the OhrisUans if Michael Cer-
Tantes 1^ not been betrayed by his own
companions. He liept up the courage and
hopes of the captives at the risk of his own
life, which he imperilled four times. He
was threatened with death by impaling, by
hanging, and by burning alive; and dared
all to restore his fellow-sufferers to liberty.
If his courage, his ability, his plans, had
been seconded by fortune, Algiers at this
day would belong to us, for he aimed at
nothing less.*'

Cerrantes did not put his own ad-
ventures in writing. The captive in
Don Quixote said with reference to
them, ^ I might indeed tell you some
strange things done by a soldier named
Saavedra. They would interest and
surprise you, but to return to my own
story.** The disinterested hero had
more at heart the downfall of Islam -
ism than his own glorification.

us RBSTOSJLTION TO HIS ITATIVB LAND.

Cervantes touched his native land
again with no very brilliant prospect
before him. His father was dead;
his mother could barely support her-
self, his brother was with the army,
and his fi lends dispersed. Still the
first step on his beloved Spain gave
him great joy, afterwards expressed
through the mouth of the captive in
Don Quixote :

** We went down on our knees and
kissed our native soil, and then with
eyes bathed in tears of sweet emotion
we gave than)(s to God. The sight
of our Spanish land made us forget
ttll our troubles and sufferings. It
seemed as if they had been endured
by others than ourselves, so sweet it
is to recover lost liberty/'

At the time of hb arrival lung and
court were at Badiyos, watching the
progress of the annexation of Por-
tugaL He joined the army, and dur-
ing the years 1581, % '3, shared in
the battles between Philip and the
Prior Antonio de Ocrato, the latter
being assisted by the French and
English. In one of these fights the
Spanish admiral ordered the brave
Strozzi, wounded and a prisoner, to be
flung into the sea. At the engage-
ment of the Azores, Bodrlgo Cervan-
tes and another captain flung them-
selves into the sea, and were the first
to scale the fortifications, thus giving
their soldiers a noble example.

ICABBIAOE AND SUBSEQUENT TROUBLES.

He lived in Lisbon a short time and
composed his Galatea there. Next
year he returned to Madrid, and mar-
ried the lady Dona Catalina de Pala-
cios y Salazar y Yomediano. She
was of a noble family, but her dowry
consisted of a few acres of land. In
the marriage contract, signed in pres-
ence of Master Alonzo dc AguUera,
and still in existence, mention is made
of half a dozen fowl forming part of
the fortune brought by her to the sol-
dier and poet. The marriage was
celebrated 12th December, 1584, at
the bride's residence, Esquivias, a lit-
tle town in the neighborhood of the
capital.

He now betook himself seriously to
literature, published the Galatea, and
began to write for the theater. At
first he was very successful, but on a
sudden Lope de Vega came on the
scene, and exhibited such dramatic
aptitude and genius and mental fertil-
ity, that managers and actors and au-
dience had no ears for any other as-
pirant to dramatic reputation, and poor
Cervantes found his prospect of fame
and independence all at once clouded.
The pride of the Spanish hidalgo and
*^Old Christian"* had been much

Mood In hit

raspecU
Telni.

Mipid de OervatUes y Saavednu

modified bj his life in the armj and
bagnio, and his good common sense
told him that it was his datj to seek
to support his family bj some civil
occapation rather than indulge his
family pride, and suffer them and him-
self to starve.

But oh, Apollo and his nine blue
stockings! what was the occupation
dropped over our soldier-poet's head,
and doing all in its power to extin-
guish his imaginative and poetic fac-
ulties ? Nothing more nor less than the
anti-romantic duties of a commissary.
Well, well, Spain was no more prosaic
than other countries, and Cervantes
had brothers in his mechanical occu-
pations. Charles Lamb's days were
spent in adding up columns of ^ long
tots." Bums gauged whbkey casks
and kept an eye on private stills ;
Shakespeare adjusted the contentions
of actors, and saw that their exits and
entrances did not occur at the wrong
sides ; perhaps the life of the mill-
slave Plautus furnished as much hap-
piness OS any of the others. The mill-
stones got an occasional rest, and he
was in enjoyment for the time, when
reading comic scenes from his tablets
or scrolls, and listening to the out-
bursts of laughter that came from the
open throats of his sister and brother
drudges.

The Invinciblo Armada, while pre-
paring to make a hearty meal on Eng-
land, had need meantime of provender
while crossing the rough Biscayan
sea, and four commissaries were ap-
pointed to collect provisions for that
great monster, and for the behoof of
the Indian fleets. Cervantes was one
of the four, Seville appointed his head-
quarters, and his time most unpoct-
ically employed collecting imposts in
kind from all tax-paying folk.

Tlie regular clergy (houses of friars
and monks) were at the time at deadly
feud with his Most Catholic Majesty,
Philip II., and refused to pay him
tribute. They founded their refusal
on a papal bull; and on the other
aide, the alcaids produced the royal
frarrauL Betwoen the contending

powers the author of Galatea found
himself sufficiently embarrassed.

For some years Cervantes endured
a troubled and wretched existence in
such employment as the above, in
purchasing com for the use of the
galleys, and in making trips to Mo-
rocco on public business. He solicited
the govemment for an office in the
Indies, and was on the point of obtain-
ing it when some influence now un-
known frustrated his hopes. He de-
scribes his condition and that of many
other footballs of fortune in the Jeal-
ous Estremaduran :

" In the great city of Seville he found op-
portunities of spending the little he had lotl
Finding himself destitute of money, and not
better provided with friends, he tried the
means adopted by all the idle hangers-on in
that city, namely, a passage to the Indies, the
refuge of the outcasts of Europe, the sanctu-
ary of bankrupts, the inviolable asylum of
homicides, paradise of gamblers who are
there sure to gain, resort of women of loose
lives, where the many have a prospect, and
the few a subsistence.**

Our poet not being bom with an in-
stinct for regular accounts and beint;
charged to collect arrears of tax iu
Granada to the amount of two mil-
lions of maravedis, say £1,500, found
his task difficult among people who
were slow in committing to memory
the rights of the crown. His greatest
mistake was the intrusting of a con-
siderable sum to a merchant named
Simon Freire dc Luna in order to be
deposited in the treasury at Madrid.
Simon became bankrupt, and Cer-
vantes was cast into prison for the
deficiency in his accounts. He was
soon set at liberty, but the diflerent
appearances ho was obliged to make
before the courts of Seville, Madrid,
and Valladolid were sufficient to turn
his hair grey before its time. The
judges reproached him for his deficit,
the people gave him no praise. The
alcaids of Argamasilla in La Mancha
gave him particularly bad treatment.
Perhaps he recollected it when writing
his romance.

Subjected to the interrogatories of
the royal councillors, judges, and eveu

Miguel de OervanUi y Saavedrcu

alcaids, a servant to all merely for
means to live, and always moving
about, poor Cervantes appears at last
to have given way. From 1594, when
sent to collect arrears in Granada, to
1598, little can be gathei*ed concerning
him, bat from this last date till 1603
nothing whatever is known of his for-
tunes« The probability is that he
spent part of the time in a prison of
Andalusia or La Mancha, and there
meditated on the vanity of human ex-
pectatioQS, and wrote the first part of
Don Quixote.

HIS LTTEIIABT LIFE.

Wherever he spent this interval his
brain had not been idle — he had passed
in review the defects of the Spanish
government and of the Spanish char-
acter. He had been unable to rouse
the king to crush the power of the
AJgerine pirates, either by the memo-
rials he had consigned to Ins friend the
secretary, or by the vigorous pictures
he had presented on the stage (afler
his return from captivity) of the cruel-
ties inflicted by them on their unhappy
captives. He had failed in his great and
cherished object, but there remained
ooe reformation yet to be made, namely,
of taste among those Spaniards, ladies
and gentlemen, to whom reading was
a pleasure, and who could afford to
purchase books. To substitute a rel-
ish for healthier studies was a darling
object of our much worried poet for
years. It was cherished in prisons,
and the first pai*t of his great work
written, or nearly so, at the time when
we find him again mixing with society
in Valladolid, where Philip HL held
his court. This was in the year 1608.
The following extract concerning his
residence and his mode of life in that
dty, is taken from the work of M.
Chasles :

"There is at Yalladolid a poor looking
bouse, narrow and low, hemmed in among the
taverns of a subnrb, and near the deep and
empty bed of a torrent called Eegu^ra.
There Cerrantea came to liye m 1603, in the
filtT-aeyenth year of hia age. With an emo-
UQQ which I cannot expresi I hare visited this

dwelling, which stands outside the city, and
which remains unmarked by stone or inscrip-
tion. A well-u^cd staircase conducts to the two
modest chambers used by Cervantes. One,
in which he slept, no doubt, is a squaro^ooin
with a low ceiling supported by beam?. The
other, a sort of ill-lighted kitchen looking on
to the neighboring roofs, still holds his can-
tarelo or stone with three round hollows to
hold water jars. Here lived with him his
wife, Dona Catalina, his daughter Isabelle,
now twenty years old, his sister Dona An-
drea, his niece Constanza, and a relation
named Dona Magdalena. A housekeeper in-
creased the family. Where did all sleep ?
However that was arranged, they all did their
work together. The ladies earned money by
embroidering the court-dresses. Valladolid,
adopted for abode by the new king and by
the Duke of Lerma, was then incumbered, as
was Versailles afterwards, with gentlemen,
with the grandees, and with generals. Our
impoverished family was supported by this
affluence. The Marquis of Villafranca, return-
ing from Algiers to the court, got his gala-suit
made by the family of the soldier-poet, with
whom he had erewhile been acquainted. Cer-
vantes was occupied either with keeping the
books of people in business, or regulating
the accounts of some people of quality, or
striving to bring his long lawsuit with the
government lo a close.

" In the evening, while the needles of the
women flew through the stuffs, he held the
pen, and on the comer of the table he put
his thoughts in writing. There it was he
composed the prologue of that work which
had been a labor of love in the composition,
and in which he employed all the force of
his genius. In bringing it with him to Val-
ladolid, he experienced alternations of hope
and fear, being fully sensible that it was his
masterpiece. *Idle reader,* said he in the
first page, * you may credit my word, for I
have no need to take oath, that I wish this
book, child of my brain, were the most
beautiful, the most brilliant, and the most
witty that any one could imagine.* He had
published nothing since the Galatea, which
had appeared twenty years before and was
an amiable apology for the taste of the times.
The book about to be printed was a flagrant
attack on the same literature.'*

Those who despise the old hooks
of chivalry, and have prubahly never
opened one, are too ready to under-
value Cervantes' apprehension about
bringing out his book, and the service
it eventually rendered to society and
literature. We recommend an in-
different individual of this way of
thinking to peruse about the eighth
of tlie contents of one of the con-

dcinned vohimcs of Don Quixole'a

libmry, and work himself into tlic con-
viction ihat the body of Ihe Spanish
readers of 1603^ ladies and geutlecipn,
not *only ailmired such compositions
n»ore than hving readers admire the
most popular writinjL;:^ of our timcs»
bLJt in many instances believed the
€uJUents to be true.

Let us hope that therc is some mis-
fake about tlic non-uccommodation
afforded to the seven individuals of
Cervantes' family, six of whom were
of gentle hlood. It is easy to imagine
what delifrhtful evenings they would
have enjoyed if tolerably comfortable
with regard to fui^niture and space, tlie
5oldier*poet rending; out some passages
from the Don, or the Exemplary Nov-
els, or one of his plays, and the well-
bred women plying their needles, lia-
leuing with interest, and occasionally
breaking out into silvery laughs at the
comic misfortunes of the kuigbt, or
tlio naive pieces of roguery of the
f qui re.

We can readily imagine the desola-
tion of Cervantes* spirit during the
troubled years of his offieiid wander-
ing:?, hi» superiors urging him to grind
tilt* faces of his countrymen and
fellow -subjects, and these entertaining
most unfiiendly feelings towaixls him-
fielf. The ladies of his family — where
were lliey during this nomadic life of
his, and how were they situated ?
Separation from their stx;iety and
anxiety about their privations must
have added much to the present suffer-
ing, and furebcMlInifs of things still
worse, tlic compunions of hi^ lonely
1)0 urs*

A pleasant interrtiplion to the mo-
notony and privations of the famiJy
life must have been ihe appearance of
the iirst part of the Don in 1004, aad
the popularity it soon attained*

HIS LAHORB AKO TDKTE RSqCITAU

I Ihor till found by fame, were Bom

m i^ady to do him disservice by pas^tng

E censure on the cxecutiou of the great

work, and even ficajrching for subjecta
of blame in bis past career. Lope de
Vega, as we have seen, had put it otit
of his power to turn his dramolic tid*
ents to account* Further, he did
not act in a kind manner towards him
in private, though outwardly friendly.
But Lope*B friends and adniirersi ao
deeply resented an honest and judi-
cious criticism on tlie works of Ibc
prolific dmmatiat by C^rvante^, that
tliey ceased not during the remaining
dozen years of his life to do hioi
every unfriendly act In their power*
One was so full of malice and so un-
principled, that towards the end of
Cervantes' Uf'e he wrote a second pan
of the Adventures of Don Quixote,
distinguished by coarseness, dullness,
and inability to make the personages
of the first pari of the story act iind
speak in character, Tlie impudent
and talentless writer called himsrdf
Don Avellaneda of some town in La
Mancha, but one of De Vega'a ad-
mirers was sup|josed to be the real
culprit. Suspicions fell on several,
but the greater number eentitid in
Pere Luis de Aliaga, a favorite of
the Duke of Lerma, and the con-
fessor of Philip riL He was tail,
meagre, sjid dark-complexioned, and
had got the sobriquet of Sancho Pcmza
by antithesis*

The wretched attack, for it was no
better, waa published in 1G14, two
years lietbre the death of Cervantea,
Though suffering from illness, and
overshadowed by the expectation of
apprtnu'hing death, tiie ap[»earance of
the iin|iudent and wordiless production
acted on him as the bugle on the
nerves of the old baltliB-siced, In the
oi-der «jf Pmvidence good is extracted
from mere human evil, and to the false
Avellaneda the world is indirectly in-
debted for the second part of Don
Quixote, the wedding of Gamacho, tlie
wise though unsuccessful government
of Baraiaria by Sancho, the disen-
chanlment of Dulcinea, and all the
delightful adventures and conferences
that Imd place at tlie du'^al chateau^
provinc? unknown.

Miguel de Cerwmtet y Sanvtdra.

Bat between the pablishing of the
first part of Dcm Quixote in 1605,
and the second in 1614, how had the
prreat heart and head been occupied ?
Probably with little pleasure to him-
self. On his return from the wars of
Portugal in 158i, he had the pleasure
and profit of seeing several of his
]»lays acted, some expressly written to
direct public spirit towards a crusade
on the Algerines.* Of these he thus
Sficaks in the prologue to his dramatic
works, published 1613 :

"In all the pUiThoases of Madrid were
acted some plays of my composing, such as
the Humors of Algiers, the Destraction of
Numantia, and the Naval Battle, wherein I
took the liberty of reducing plays to three
acts which before consisted of five. I
showed, or, to speak better, I was the first
that represented the imaginations and secret
thoughts of the soul, exhibiting moral charac-
ters to public view to the entire satisfaction
of the audience. I composed at that time
thirty plavs at least, aU of which were
acted without auybody^s interrupting the
players by flinging cucumbers or any other
trash at them. They ran their race without
any hissing, cat-calling, or any other dis-
order. But happening to be taken up with
other things, I laid aside play-writing, and
then came on that prodigy of nature, that
marvellous man, the great Lope de Vega,
vho raised himself to be supreme monarch
of the stage. He subdued all the players,
and made them obedient to his will. He
filled the world with theatrical pieces, finely
and happily devised, and full of good sense,
and so numerous that they take up above
ten thousand sheets of paper all of his own
writing, and, which is a most wonderful thing
to relate, he saw them all acted or at least
luid the satisfaction to hear they were all
acted."

Good-hearted, generous Cervantes,
who could so dwell on that success
in a riyal which condemned him-
self to the wretched life of an inland
rerenue officer, to the hatred of non«
payers of tax, to prosecutions, and to

• Between the d»y» of Lope de Roeda and those
of CerrantM* debut, Naharra of Toledo had made
considerable Improrement* In the mechanics of the
art. The sack was rejected, and chests and ironies
Iteld the properties. The musicians came from be-
hind their blanlcet, and faced their customers. He
r^ected the beards exoe|>i in the case of disguise-
meats, and invented or adopted thunder, lightning,
cloods. cludlenges, and fights. He himself vras a
capital pcmnator of oowardlj bullies.

the discomforts of an Andalugion or
Manchegan dungeon, and separation
from his niece, sister, daughter, and
wife, whom, in absence of data to the
contrary, we take to be amiable and
affectionate women.

When the court returned to Madrid
he and his family followed it, but we
find no employment given by him to
the printing presses of that city from
1604 to 1613, when he got published
the collection of plays and interludes
before mentioned. In the same year
he published his twelve Exemplary
Novels,* dedicating them to his pa-
tron, Don Pedro Fernandez de Castro,
count of Lemos. This nobleman, in
conjunction with Archbishop San-
doval, and the actor, Pedro de
Morales, had succeeded (let us hope)
in cheering the poet's latter years.
In the preface he gives a portrait of
himself in his sixty-sixth year, dis-
tinguished by his own charming style,
always redolent of resignation, good-
will, and good-nature. He pretends
that a friend was to have got his por-
trait engraved to serve as frontispiece,
but, owing to his negligence, he him-
self is obliged to supply one in pen and
ink: ,

** My friend might have writteQ under the
portrait — This person whom you see here,
with an oval visage, chestnut hair, smooth
open forehead, lively eyes, a hooked but well-
proportioned nose, a silvery beard that, twen-
ty years ago, was golden, large moustaches,
a small mouth, teeth not much to speak of,
for he has but sU, all in bad condition and
worse placed, no two of them corresponding
to each other ; a figure between the two ex-
tremes, neither tall nor short, a vivid com-
plexion, rather fair than dark, somewhat
stooped in the shoulders, and not very light-
footed : this I say is the author of Galatea,
Don Quixote de la Mancha, . . . commonly
called Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. He
was for many years a soldier, and for five
years and a half in captivity, where he learn-
ed to have patience in adversity. He lost liis
left hand by a musket-shot in the battle of
Lepanto, and ugly as this wound may appear,
he regards it as beautiful, having received it

• The Lady Cornelia, Rinconete and CorUdillo,
I>octor Glass-case, the Deceitful BfarriaKe, the Dia-
logue of the Dogs Scipio and Bergansa, the Little
Glpiiy Oirl, the Generous Lover, the Spanlsh-Bngliah
Lad J, the Force of Blood, the Jealous Estremaduran,
the UlUBtrious Scullery-Blaid, and the Two Danueii.

on llio most memorattlo and sublime occjl^
sioD whicli pojtt I * inert bnve ever Beeii, or fu-
ture timed ctm hope to equul, Ughllug under
the victorious bjuiners ot tlie »mi of ibat
thunderbolt of wnr, Clmrles V. of bl*?S8ed
raeniory. Should the friend of whom 1
complain have no nioro to 3»iy of nie than
ttiiJ* I would myself have eomposed a couple
of dozen of eulogiuiua, and commutiieuted
them to him in ftecrat,'* etc

THE CLOSDiQ BCBNS.

Cetnrantcs* Vojagc to Parnftssus,
in wliich he roni|ilam3 to Apollo for
not being funiisherl even wiHi a stool
in that poots' elysium, wfj5 published
in 1614, the scoond part of Don
Quixote in 1G15, and that was the
last book wliose proofs he had the
ple«isiirc to correct. He was em*
ployed on his Troubles of Persiltfs
and RijE^ismunda,* and wrote its pre-
face, and the dt'dieatJon to his patron
the Coirnt of Lemos, while enfflring
under hU final oomphiint, the dropay,
and having only a few day;* to live.
From ttie preface to the Persiles he
appears to liave received extreme unc-
tion before the lajst word of if wan writ-
ten. From the forgiving, and patietitT
and tnmquil spirit of hi^ nritinfr, even
when annoyed by much unkin<hies8
and injui<ticc on the part of the Mathid
doterie^i from the spirit of religion and
morality tliat jwrvades his writings,
and the care he appears to have taken
to meet his summons as a sincere
Christian, we may reasonably hope
that his sorrows and troubles for timo
and eternity ended on 23d April, ItJlO
the day on which a kindrc^d spirit
breathed his last at Stratford-on-Avon.

And indeed in our meditations on
the characteristics of the author and
man in Cervantes, we have always
mentally associated him with Shakes-
peare and Sir Waller Scott* We find
in all the same versatibty of jrcnius,
the same ^n^p and bi^eadlh of intel-
lect, the same gifls of genial humor,

• It wu pabUthed by bis wldov, Dook Cfttatltm,
la HUT,

and the same largeness of sympatli
The lile of Cervantes will be alwj
an in teres lin«: and edifying study in
connexion with the literature and the
great events of his time. We find
him conscientiously doing his duty in
every phase of his diversified exist*
ence, and effecting all the good in hi*
power, Wlien he feels the need of
filling a very disagreeable office in or-
der to afford necessary support to his
family, he bends the stubborn pride of
the hidalgo to his irksome duties — and
it is nut ensy for us to realize the ri-
gidity of that quality wlitch he inher-
ited by birth» and which became a se-
cond nature in every gentleman of his
nation. In advanced years he still
vigorously exerts his faculties, and en-
din:*e3 privations and disappointments
in a resigned and patient spirit ; and
when complaints are wrung from him
tliey are neither bitter nor ill-natured.
Even his harmless vanity has some-
thing amiable and cordial about it.
When he has jus I reached his sixtieth
year he effecfs a salutary revolution in
the corrupt litei^a ry taste of his coun-
trymen and countrywomen, and sal
a few coarse expressions inseparubl
iVomthe literature of his day, a death-
bed examination would have found few_
passages in his numerous writini
which it would be desirous to find omil
ted. He closed an anxious and indus-
trious life by a Christian death*

J<70TE.

Towards the end of Cervantes* Hfi

he belonged to the third order of
Trinitarian monks, and was buried in
their church with his face uncovered.
These brothers having quitted their
convent in 1B33, the site of the inter-
ment could not be discovered when a
search was afterwards made. The
house he occupied in Madrid being
pulled down about twenty years since,
ins bust has been placed in a niche in
front of the new building.

Siient Gritf. 29

SILENT GRIEF.

You bid me raise mj voice,

And pray
For tears ; but yet this choice
Resteth not with me. Too much grief
Taketh the tears and words that give relief

Away:
Though I weep not, silent and apart,

Weeps and prays my heart

Yoa like not this dead, calm,
Cold face.
So still, nnmoved, I am.
You think that dark despair begins
To brood upon me for my many sins'

Disgrace:
Not 80 ; within, silent and apart,

Hopes and trusts my heart.

Down underneath the waves

Concealed
Lie in unfathomed graves
A thousand wrecks, storm never yet —
That did the upper surface madly fret —

Revealed.
Wreck'd loves lie deep ; tears, with all their art,
Ne'er could show my heart.

Complaint I utter not.

I know
That He who cast my lot,
In silence also bore His cross.
Nor counted lack of words or tears a loss

In woe.
Alone with Him, silent and apart,

Weeps and prays my heart.

THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.

CHAPTER h

MR. OODFTlEr JLND HIS FAMILY.

AnouT the time the events of the
era 17 'J '2 were treat iog a panic
throughout the European wcrld, an
Kngllwh geiitleniaa sat at breakfast
with his wife and eliildR^n in a noble
mansion on the south eaatorn coast of
hb native i^hind. The newspaper
was unfolded with more tJian usual
interest, for ilie Honorable Mr, God-
frey's sister had married a French
nobleman, and the daily accounts
from France strnek every day new
terror to the heart #f this gemleman.
Untd now, he had been what is termed
a liberal in his politic?!, and, aliie I an
unbeliever in his reli^^ion, aod hori
prided himself on bringing up his
family free from all bif;otry and super-
stition ; he had kept up eorresponJenee
with men of science ail over the
worldi and fondly hoped that the reign
of inttllect ** would emtmcipate thtj
world from evih*- His cliildren had
been brought up under alt these influ-
ences, and thus far with success to big
scheme* Accustomed from infancy
to r(!finement, elegance, domestic hap-
piness, and intellectual culture, these
young people felt I bat in their case
goodness and happinesa were synony-
raousi. All that was beautiful taey
loved, for lliey had cultivated tastes ;
all that was noble in sentiment tliey
admired, for fbeir father priderl him-
delf, and taught I hem to pride them*
selves, on their noble ancestry, whose
deeds of daring t^nd renown be was
never weary of recounting. Fame,
honor, and giory wei-e their idols*
Brought up among such genial inBu-
ences &s foster agreeable manners

and bring out the roost lovable of
earth*8 dispositions, together with an
intellectual expression of beauty, and a
poetic appreciation of nature*^ charms,
it was little wonder that they mistook
strong impulses for principle, thought
themselves (Irm in integrity of purf»o*e,
and wore disposed fearlessly to launch
their vessel on the ocean of life,
secure tliat intelligence and liigh aims
would giuird them for ever against
shipwreck. But now a change seemed
pending. The fear engendered by the
French Revohition had somewhat
revolutionized Mr, Godfrey's mind, he
was becoming mure cautious in his th^
ones, and more morose iu his temp
than be had ever been before* HiS
wife hesitated ere she asked : " Auj
news of the conn less to-day ?*

*' No ; though affairs ore getting
moiti deFperatc every hour. Would
siic and the count were safe in
England.**

^* But, in that ca^e, their estates,
would be couiiscated, would they
not ? *

I^Ij*. Godfrey rose uneasily and
paced the room. " What is the world
eom*ng to ?" lie said,

A loud ring at the outer gate pre-
vented reply ; it was early for visitors
at the front entrance. They paused,
and lisiened ; soon a servant announced
" M. de Villenenve,*'

"M* de Villeneuvel why, what
can bring hitn here ? Where have
you shown him to? '

" He is in the iibrary, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey hastened to receive
his visitor. *• I thought you were in
America," he said, al^er the iirst
greetings were over.

*'I went back to France to finiiih
armr^'ug seme aflaira for my father;

The Godfrey Family; w^ Quetiums of the Day.

and well for me that they were set*
tied before these scenes of blood had
crazed the populace, or we should
have lost everything."

« And now "

" Now, everything of ours has been
favorably disposed of, and my father
and his family are settled in America
without loss of property ; my father is
delighted at the prospects of the new
world, where every man is to be
EQUAX. before the laws ; you know he
is an enthusiast.**

** Yes, but it is an untried experi-
ment yet, and France is presenlisg a
very fearlFul spectacle at this moment in
endeavoring to follow in the track.**

*< It is of that I came to speak to
you. You have relations there ?"

** My sister — do you know anything
about her T*

^ I and some other friends brought
her and her husband's daughter
across the Channel last night."

^Last night! across the Channel!
And her husband '*

** Has perished by the guillotine !"

"Great God!" Mr. Godfrey hid
his fece in his hands. '*My poor
sister ! how did she bear it ? where is
she ? how did you come ?"

"We came over in an open fish-
ing boat — ^the Countess de Meglior,
Euphrasie, the priest of the old cha-
teau, and myself; it was all we could
do to escape detection. I, of course,
passed unnoticed, as an American citi-
sen ; but the Countess of Euphrasie and
M. Bertolot had to disguise themselves
and to suffer many hardships. The
countess now lies iU in the bttle inn
at New- Haven ; she sent me on to tell
you of her siiuaiion.''

** My poor sister ! My poor sister 1
Has she lost all T

** Nearly so. The estate is confis-
cated, and save a little money and a
few jewels she was able to save noth*
iDg ; indeed she was too much terrified
to think. Mademoiselle de Meglior
had been sent for on the first alarm
from the south of France, where she
had been educated; she arrived in
time to throw herself into her father's

arms as the officers were taking him
from his house ; and in less than a
week he was no more. Secret intima-
tion was sent to the countess that she
and her daughter were both denounc-
ed, and thev fed, as I have told
you.''

To hasten to his sister's aid was, of
course, the first thing to be thought of.
It was some days before the countess
was sufficiently recovered to be able
to be removed to her brother^s house ;
and even after removal she was for a
long time confined to her room.

Euphrasie, her step-daughter, tend-
ed her most assiduously, but the poor
lady could scarcely be comforted.
To have, lost everything at once —
husband, estate, wealth, power, and
position, and to be reduced to depend
upon a brother's bounty — ^it was not
wonderful that she should feel her
situation acutely. She had lived ex-
clusively for this world's honors ; every
duty of domestic life had given place
to her love of the court and its plea-
sures. Euphrasie, brought up at the
convent and under the guardianship of
her paternal grandmother, was almost
as much a stranger to her as the
nieces to whom she was now newly
introduced.

It was a long time ere the Countess
de Meglior rallied sufficiently to ap-
pear in the drawing-room of the man-
sion, and meantime her step-daughter,
Euphrasie, was simply her slave.
Madame never considered her welfare,
or seemed to think she was in any
way concerned in the misfortune that
bad overtaken them ; yet never, per-
haps, was a child more fondly attached
to a father than had been our hero-
ine. Although since the death of her
own mother she had for the most
part resided away from him, yet her
father's frequent visits to his ancestral
.chateau, and the still more frequent
correspondence with his mother and
daughter, had kept up a warm interest.
At the death of her grandmother she
had received her education at a neigh-
boring convent, for her step-mothor

Th4 Godfrty Family; or^ QueHum^^

rloclined taking charge of her. Slic
was summoned home at last in coiiac-
qMence of the trouhles of the tunes ;
arrived In time to be torn by force
from the arm^ of her father, into
which she had llirowir her5?elf ; passed
duy> of aijonizing sui^pense, which
were tertiunaled onlj by hearing of
bia death.

Paris wa3 no longer safe; adver-
tised of bei' own proseriptioo, Madame
de Meghor, almost in a state of frenzy,
Bceepted tlie kind otfiees of M. de
Villeneuve, an J, with the old family
clia|daiii, had fled the couiitrv, tiiking
with her Euphra^ie, with whom she so
suddenly beciune aware she wad con-
nected, tljoiijili a stranger alike to her
character and disposition*

Euphrasie, thotigh overwhelmed by
the blow, waa constrained to hide her
own emotions, the better lo console
one who seemed so inconsolable aa
the countess, heratep-molher* Tiiily,
the poor girl did feel she ^vas as a
stranger in a strange lapd, Unlil the
storm broke forth which drove the
Dims from the convent^ and let infitlel-
iiy and irreligion like ** the dogs of
war* loose over the fated kingdom,
Euplinisie had dwelt in liapi^y ignor-
ance of all grosser evil, and with light
and merry heart, chastened by earnest
piety, pnrsued her innoc^ent way ; but
fiuddeniy awakened by sach horrors
to the knowledge of crime, vice* and
their concomitant miseries, she shrank
from entering into a world which con-
Irjisted witii the abode she liad loft,
seemed to her over-excited imagina-
tion filled with mysterious terrors, and
fraught with indt^scrJbablc dangers.

She met, then, the advances of her
enteitaincrs wiib eonstmmt ; kept tJie
young people absolutely at a diiJtance,
and would more wilhngly shut herself
up in the apartment of her peevish,
unloving stej^-motlier, to whom she
manifested the affection and paid the
respect of a daughter, than join with
Adekide or Annie either hi study or
amusement.

Adelaide, the eldest daughter of
Mr. Godfrey's family, was within two

months of her eighteenth year^ — ^Ea
gene-, the only sou and heir, was tb'^a^
filxteen — while her sister Annie W35
but a year younger; and the merry,
laughing Hester had scarcely countd
thirteen years. With the compas^iun-
ate eagerness of youlli they cruwdt- li
round Euphmsie, whom they perHi^Ie^i
in saluting as " cousin,*' and were not
a little chagriucil to find their advanci?**
met in so chilling a manner; thry
epamd no pains to disti*act her froui
her moodiness, or hauteur, or ill-tem-
per, or whatever it might bcn, that made
her go different from themselves. Yet
mofxliness it scarcely con Id be, fur the
young French girl was cheerful in
society, so far as the expression of her
countenance went ; and when surprised
in solitude, a calm serenity sat on her
youthftil bi*ow, and she bore the ill-
temper of the countess with wonderful
sweetness ; her mother's impatience,
indeed, seemed but to mcrease her
patience, and the harshness she under-
went served but to make her more
gentle. She was a mystery to her
animated young friends, who, loving
a lite of excitement and intellectual i
progress, could not undei^stand boirj
Euphrasie could exist in ao stupid \
monotonous a course.

Yet was the young French girl far J
from being de'seient in (liose branche
ot accomidishmenls which are espo^l
cially feminine. She played anc
sang with taste and feeling, but I he
airs were generally of a solemn char-
acter. She loved, also, to exercise
her pencil, but it was to delineate the
head of the thorn -crowned Saviour,
of the iKniitent Magdalene, or of,
** Mar)', highly favored among wo-|
raen." Earthly subjects and earthly"
thoughts had no attraction for her, yet
there were moments when, as if uncon-
sciously, she gave ntlerance to fanciesJ
which startled her young companions.
She would walk with them by the
sounding shore, and while they werOj
busy gathering and cla^ssifying shelb
and &ea-weed and geological epeci*
mens, she, too, would seem to study'
and listen and leani a lesson, but m far

The Godfrey Famly ; or, Queitions of the Ihy.

different lesson from the one tbcj
sought. The young ladies Godfrey
were scientific, though in a pla}'ful
way ; there was aim, object, utility , in
short, fn all their seekings. " Know-
ledge is power," was the axiom of the
family ; and the members of it might
fairly challenge the world for the con-
sistency with which they sought to
carry that axiom into practice. But
Euphrasie would wonder and ponder,
and philosophize unconsciously. She
did not decompose the fragments of
the mij^hty rocks with acids as her
young friends did ; she did not classify
and dissect the lovely flower ; but she
stood in mute wonderment at the base
of the rocks, and heard their disquisi-
tions on its strata having been once
liquid and p^radually consolidating, and
said : " What a wondrous history !
what a sight for the angels to behold
the atomic attraction forming the
worlds grand order! A true theory
of geology would be like a chapter of
the life of God — a true revelation of
his spirit to man.'*

** Yes," said Adelaide ; " science will
yet biinish superstition from the earth."

'* Superstition !" said Euphrasie.
** Yes ! if* superstition means false
views of God's relation to the human
soul. True science is mystic, and
must reveal Grod interiorly; but true
science can scarcely be attained by
guesses or dissection. You destroy
a beauteous flower by pulling it to
pieces, but I do not see how its sepa-
rate petals and crushed leaves can
speak so plainly to the soul as the
living plant on the stem, or how your
anatomy is a revelation."

" Nay, we discern the uses of the
different parts thereby, and admire
the structure, seeing how each organ
fulfils its office duly, in minuteness
as in grandeur."

"But your long words," said Eu-
phrasie ; " do they too reveal God ? To
me they hide liim in a cloud of dust.
I feel the order, I love the beauty,
I am elevated by the grandeur of
creation, because nature is a metaphor
in which God hides himself and re-
voc IV. 3

veals himself at once, but I distrust a
mere human key. How can we be
sure of systems, unless we spend a
life in verification? Did not Pytha-
goras teach astronomy in the Coper-
nican fashion ? and yet the world did
not receive the teaching till centuries
afler. The world receives the theorj"
of Copernicus now on trust; would
it be wise to spend a life in verifying
it? '

** Have you any other key ? " asked
Annie.

" There is a, key to the lesson which
nature teaches," said Euphrasie, in
a low tone ; " but not so much as to
its formation as to its being a mani-
festation of God. We must not
speak of these things ; they are too
high for us."

" Nay," said Eugene ; " they aro
tlie very things to speak about, espe-
cially i*', as you say, they lead to
higher things ; my idea of science is
utility. The old Magian astrologers,
the Chaldean sages and Eastern so^
phists, studied cloudy myths and
wrapped up their theories in a veil of
obscurity ; but the modem idea is
usefulness; an abridgment of man's
toil, and promotion of his comfort.
Do you reject all human research ?"

" I reject nothing that God has
given," said Euphrasie ; '' but truth is
one, error is many. The science Hrst
to be taught, is how to discover truth —
the next, how to apply it. You say
the ancients applied science to other
purposes than we; if they applied
it to learn the qualities of their own.
souls, and we apply it to the comfort
of our bodies merely, which is the
highest object ?"

** What, then, would you do ?" said
Adelaide, a little impatiently; "shut
up our books, and sit and dream on
the sea-^hore on matters beyond all
practical use ?*'

Euphrasie answered very gently,
as she rose to walk to the seaside, " I
am not a teacher, ma cher cousine,
but I think mind has its laws as well
as matter, and as on the government of
our minds so much depends, even in

WLV WBca relies after material know-
ledge, it ia likely ibat tlie science of
miod 16 more important tlsan that of
matter, and necessary for the truth-
seeker to study first. But I am
getting quite out of my depth ; let us
go and throw pebbles mto the eea,"

Mrs. Godfrey was a kind-hearted
and Fery reasonable woman, in the
way in which she understood reason-
ing. She was bent on rousing ber
young inmate to energ-y and action.
She was hut a fftrl^ she said — a girl
of Bcventeen could not have been so
spoiled by the insipidities of a convent
as to be beyond reclaiming for the
tangihie world surrounding her ; or
was it that her thoughts were with the
dead^ and that the deep sorrow she
had undergone had penetrated to the
depths of her being ? Whatever the
cause, Mrs. Grodfrey was dissatisfied
with the result, and her motherly
warmth of heart yearoed to comtbrt
the young orphan in her desolation.
She let a few weeks pass away in
hopes of witnessing a change, but
when none came, or seemed likely to
come, she thought it her duty to re-
monstrate with Euphrasie, the more so
aa the countess being now recovered
sufficiently to join the family circle,
Euphrasie had no plausible excuse for
passing hours togplher in the solitude
of her own chamber,

** It is not good for you, my dear, to
be so much alone," said Jlrs. Godfi"ey
to her» as one day she intruded on the
young girl's privacy. "Rouse your
^energies to some good purpose, atid
employ your mind in some defmite
pursuit; it is very injurious, I assure
you, to let your faculties lie dormant
80 long."

Euphrasie laid a^ide the embroidery
on which she had been employed, and
answered meekly, " What shall I do to
please you, my dear madam ?"

** Why, exercise your mental facul-
ties — study,"

** I am most willing to do so, ma-
dam ; but what shall I begin V^

** Why, languages if you will ; hut

you know enough of these, peri^Hf
your own language and that of lliit
country may content you. Or will
you study German and Italian T

"I will, if you wish it,
though I confess I have no great in-
clination. It seems to me as if to learn
different names for the same thing
were not very profitable; and ttnkfii
I had occasion lo visit the countries in
which these languages are spoken* 1
think it wonld be time thrown away*

** How time thrown away ? Could
you not read the literature of the
languages? That will expand joar
mind*'*

** Literature ? Do you mean poetry _
and fiction — such as your daoghten^H
read ? I do not care for ibem. f ^1
want to study truth.**

** Truth ? Yeis but fiction may he
covert truth. Tales show us man-
kind as they are. Literature has a
refining tendency, and gives uj ele-
gance of tayte.''

"^I should defer to your opinion,
madam,'* replied Euphrasie, ii%itli a
resigned air; **and when you wish, 1
will begin/*

"Yes,* said Mrs. Godfrey* ••hut
not as a punii^hment ; it is as a source
of attnuuion, of interest, that I wish
you to cultivate literary tastes.*'

^' I carmot fed interest, madam, m
tliat which will un5t me for mf
duty;*

** Unfit you for your duty ! what do
you mean ?"

*^ Pray, madam, pardon me ; It of
course, defer to you. *

^' I want no deference, child^ sate
what your reason gires. Explain
your nieaning/*

**I only mean, dear madam, that
too much refinement and elegance
might make ua forget our inltet'eDt
weakness ; teach us lo set t4:»o high a
value on exterior accompiishmentj,
and to foi*get the tendency to sin ever
abiding within us.'*

"The girl is raving! Nov, Eu-
phrasie, do you honestly believe in the
eorruption of your heart ?**

** 1 know I am prone to evil in many

Tke CMfrey Fami^; ar^ QwUkm 9f A« 2%

wajt, and that I moBt koep a con-
Btant waldi orer all mj dispositions.
I suppoee I do not know the extent
of eril in my own heart — that were a
rare grace, Tonchsafed to few — ^btit I
see nothing in mjself to lead me to
suppoee ihaX I am naturally better
than the men who murdered my
fether.**

^ Do yoQ feel disposed to murder,
then?*

^No; bat the very indignation I
often feel at their crimes teaches me
not to trost myself. Did we giro way
to oar passions, and had we power,
who can tell what we should do?
Nero showed good dispositions when
he began his reign. Alfred the Great
was a licentioas youth till Almighty
God chastened him by adversity, and
humbled him through life by inflicting
him with an incarable disease, which
kept him ever mindftil of his former
definquencies."

^ Do yon think that disease was a
good to Alfred?"

^ Decidedly ; it helped to keep him
mindfiil of the ever-present Deity
whom his former life had offended,
and probably prevented his relapsing
into sin."

^ Ton foolish child ! his disease was
probably occasioned by the hardships
he bad undergone during his cam-
paign ; it was the natural consequence
to damp and wet and bad living. You
must study science, Euphrasie; that
will rid you of all these foolish no-
tions.''

**I will study what you please,
madam," replied Euphrasie.

But Mrs. Godfrey's endeavors to
make her young protege comprehend
results as inevitable signally failed,
to her own great astonishment The
g^l pursued easily and willingly the
eourse of study nuurked out for her ;
was somewhat amused by chemical
and other experiments, but could
never be brought to declare them
necessary results in the absolute sense.
* The action of the same spirit that
established these relationships/' said
sh^ ''might at will disturb them;

even as the chemical relationship be-
tween two substances is disturbed by
the presence of a third substance
more potent in its aflftnities.''

"^What, then, is a natural law?"
demanded Mrs. Godfrey.

^ A natural law,^' replied Euphrasie,
^ is the ordinary mode in which Divine
Providence causes one portion of in-
sentient matter to act on another por-
tion of insentient matter."

Her instructor would object to this.
^Nay, but there are natural laws af-
fecting mind also."

^ Ik)ubtless,'* said Euphrasie, ^there
are ordinary modes of acting upon
mind, both by the action of 'matter
and by the action of other minds ; but
as the special object of this life is to
reunite, to re-bind man to his Creator,
supematurel means are ever at work
to effect this object, and of these we
can predicate nothing certain."

^Supernatural nonsense, child—
who put this predous style of reason-
mg into your head ? "

^ Does not religion mean re-binding,
madam ? Was not man severed from
God by disobedience ? Was not the
whole spirit of religion, both before
and since our Lord's advent, founded
on the fact that the mercy of Grod wish-
ed to provide a remedy for that fatal
act of Adam and Eve ? And has not
insentient nature ever been made to
depart from her ordinary rules, when
such departure could forward the
cause for which Christ died ? "

Mrs. Godfrey was silenced. She
did not wish to avow her scepticism
and infidelity, but in secret she re-
joiced that her own children were free
from such a bar to improvement.

The arrival of a box of books as a
present to Euphrasie from M. de
Villeneuve, who, in a note addressed
to the countess, asked her permission
" to be allowed to present to the daugh-
ter of his departed friend a few woi^s
which, he believed, would suit her taste,
and which she would be scarcely
Ukely to find in Mr. Godfrey's library,
valuable as that library was in many
respects,'' came to help the enemy's

The Godfrey Family; or, QuuHom of tht Dag.

cnuse in Mrs. Godfrey's view of the
case, for among tiie works were selec-
tions from St. Ambrose, St. Augus-
tine, from Bede, St. Thomas Aquinas,
and others of the fathers of the church.
"I did not know you read Latin,
cousin," said the girls in surprise.
'• Nor do I, except church Latin," said
Euphrasic. " 1 leamt church Latin on
purpose to study these books, which
my father had promised me as soon as
I couhl read them. M. de Villeneuve
must have heard of this promise from
M. Bertolot. It was very kind in him
to send them to me.'

" 1 wonder you did not say * it was
a special providence'," bantered Annie;
but Eugene looked at her beseechingly
and rejirovingly, so she said no more.

In spite of ihe new attraction, Eu-
phrasie continued to study the course
appointed by Mrs. Godfrey, but in
learning thus there Was so evidently a
want of appreciation of the importance
of^he study — science seemed to her so
v<^ry little higher than a game of ball
witii a Tittle child — that her instructors
were fairly discomfited, and inclined to
turn her over to the musty old fathers
she had the bad taste to prefer to their
intelligent elucidations. .

The young people, too, were an-
noyed, for they could not attribute
to stupidity the indifference she mani-
fested, and that indifference seemed
felt as a tacit reproach of their own
eagerness.

-* She is not only not stupid,*' said
Adelaide, the oldest of the girls ;
" she is absolutely clever ; she in-
tuitively comprehends what it takes
me hours to make out. I began to
explain algebra to her, and before a
month was up, she knew more of it
than I did myself; and when I spoke
to her of this new discovery of lo-
comotive power, which has taken us so
long fully to comprehend, she gave
me what she calb the course of the
oixlinary sequences of matter, in proof
that the invention must succeed, if this
course of sequences be properly ap-
plied; and that then we may travel
without horses as fast as we can rea-

sonably wish; 'but,' fibe added, ^it
will be worth no one s while to perfect
such an invention, for, travel as fast
as we may, we cannot run away from
ourselves by any material means.' "

''She is a monomaniac," said Mr.
Godfrey; ''sensible on all points but
one."

"Unless," urged Eugene, "it be
true, as she once said, that there is
higher science than the science of mat-
ter, and that that science is the neces-
sary one for us to study."

"^ tu. Brute,'' shouted the father
indignantly. "Now, children, let us
have no such trash in my own family.
Pity your young friend, and withhoki
your censure. Remember, she was
brought up in superstition and ignor-
ance. It cannot be expected that her
mind should awaken at once to the
beauty of the physical law. But for
yourselves, afler the pains that have
been taken to keep your minds un-
fettered by the trammels of supersti-
tion, it were a disgrace indeed to see
you yield to any such worn-out fan-
cies. The close of the eighteenth
century must witness higher thoughts."

"The close of the eighteenth cen-
tury has witnessed terrific doings over
the water," said Eugene.

" Yes, and see there the effiHit of
superstition," answered his father.
" Hjid those poor wretches been taught
an enlightened philosophy instead of
an abject superstition, the reaction
would not have produced such awful
results."

" Do you then l>elieve, father, that
when Euphrasie throws off her re-
ligion, she will become such as these
men are ?"

" No ; Euphrasic is better educated
already, even from her intercourse
with us ; besides, she is refined and
elegant,"

" But so they say is Robespierre.
A Frenchman, and one not friendly to
him, said to me the other day that his
house is the ver}' picture of simple
elegance. Besides, the Roman empe-
rors were excessive in their luxurious
magnificence at the very time they

The Godfre^ Family; or, Quetthni of the Daff.

were murdering bj wholesale. Nero
sang to bis lyre the Siege of Troy
while Rome was barning. What if it
were tme that he set the city on fire
merely to revel in the luxury of a new
sensation, and to realize the emotion
he deemed he ought to feel at such a
catastrophe T* ^

" Why, Eugene," said Hester, laugh-
ing, "you, too, are growing metaphys-
icS. What will come next?*'

" Why, next we will inquire how
far metaphysics are true when they
teach that mental sensation and moral
power are distinct from each other,
and that a man may be consequently
imaginatively great— capable of every
grand mentid sensation — and be mor-
ally weak ; nay, the very slave of his
lowest propensities. We have many
examples of this."

**So says Euphrasie; and there-
fore she insists that what we call
mental culture is at best but of second-
ary value, well enough as an assist-
ant agent, but not to be considered as
a principal means in attaining the
ultimatum of Kfe.*'

"Euphrasie is a simpleton/' said
Mr. Grodfrey.

Eugene i"ose to quit the room. He
was considering within himself whether
Euphrasie were not in the right.

CHAPTER II.

THE KARTKLY UTOPIA, AIJD THE LOST
EMPniE.

In a little country town where so-
ciety is scarce, it often happens that
people associate together whose rank
is dUsimilar, for the mere sake of re-
lieving ennui of solitude. Thus in Est-
court a half-pay captain, his wife, the
clergyman and his family, the lawyer,
the doctor, and their incumbrances,
were occasionally admitted as visitors
to Estcourt Hall, as Mr. Godfrey's resi-
dence was called; and here, though
somewhat restrained by being found
m such aristocratic society, opinions

were sometimes broached which
plainly manifested that ^ the spirit of
the time^ " was working even in that
remote district.

St Simon, Fourrier, Owen, had not
then developed the social system
which is now endeavoring to sap the
foundations of all that antiquity held
in solemn reverence ; but the princi-
ples of socialism to which these men
afterwards gave a " shape " were even
then fermenting in the minds of many.
Disturbed spirits were questioning the
rights of landed proprietors, while the
sudden introduction of machinery was
raising a faction among the displaced
artisans. Ominous signs were visible
on the political horizon, and perhaps
an English "reign of terror," that
would have vied in horror with that of
France, would have been inaugurated,
had not the threatened invasion of the
island by Napoleon united all classes
anew to repel the foreign foe.

Certain it is that, early in the nine-
teenth century, it was found necessary
to have government agents in many
a petty country town in England to
watch the progress of disaffection, and
five or six shopkeepers could hardly
assemble together without the fact
being recorded, and inquiries set on
foot respecting the purport of their
meeting. Rebellious spirits were
mysteriously pressed to man the royal
navy, and the magistrates not only
connived at such kidnapping, but fre-
quently designated the individuals
whom it was desirable to remove.

This process, comparatively easy
when it concerned apprentices, jour-
neymen, or those belonging to the
laboring population, could not be
brought to bear upon obnoxious mem-
bers of the gentry with equal facility.
Now, Alfred Brookbank was one of
these. His father was rector of Est-
court, and, independently of his living,
was proprietor of a pretty landed es-
tate, the whole of which by right
of primogeniture was to fall to the
eldest eon, a careless, unprincipled
prodigal, who had already involved
his &mily in pecuniary embarrass-

•8

Tke Godfn^ FamU^; or, Q^ietiwm» ^Hb Dmji.

meots b J his recUees expenditiirey and
brought disgrace oo his father's doth
bj h^ loose moralit J.

Hi8 brother Alfred was the reverse
of this — astute, aspiring, ambitioas, he
was smitten with the preraiiing mania,
and at times talked loudl j of the foil j
and injostioe of sacrificing the interests
of a whole fiunilj to one selfish fooL
The giris, too, whose fortanes had
been injured by the elder brother's
extravagance, lent no unwilling ear to
the docuine of equal participation of
property.

Alfred Brookbank was gifted with an
eloquent tongue, an insinuating man-
ner, and a gentlemanly deportment
His figure was good, and his features,
without being lumdsome, were agree-
able from their animated expression.
He was a general favorite ; and being
prudent enough to avoid the expres-
sion of his opinions before the elder
branches of the family, it was seldom
that he was suspected of spreading
sedition and disaffection among the
young.

Of Mr. Godfrey's three daughters,
the second one, Annie, was, at this
period of our tale, by far the most sus-
ceptible of these novel ideas. She
professed that she would follow truth
wherever it should lead her, even
though it involved the relinquishment
of her own superior rank in society.
Mr. Godfrey only laughed at such
protestations from a girl of seventeen,
well knowing they would not stand
the test of experience ; but however
liarmlesB might be b^r sallies, he had
not calculated on one result of freedom
of opinion ; Annie began to take plea-
sure in Alfred Brookbank's attentions,
and to feel flattered when he expati-
ated to her on the beauty of such a
system of co-operative industry as
would banish vice and misery from the
globe and renew the golden era.

^ Is it to be wondered at," swd Al-
fred, ^ that revolutions take place in
blood, when property is so unequally
divided? nay, when oftentimes the
property is in the possession of the
Iboly while the wise man has to get his

living by haid labor? Look at the ro-
Utmak of the thing ! One man hdds
wealth, as it is caOed, and on the
strength of it he must compel fiifiy men
to work for him, while be fives at his
eas&— the roasted pigeons flying into
his month, dying, * come eat me I* *

*^ But some one must work/* aigned
Annie.

^ Yon mean to say,** lepUed Alfred,
<^ that food most be raised and dbthing
furnished* True. But how many
are employed in really nsefiil labor,
compared with those whose occnpa-
tions might be dispensed with without
loss to society, and those who are
mere appendages of wealth — mere
creatures of idleness — men who, by
forestalling their master^s wants, niake
Mm dependent on themselves ; who^
by surrounding him with Inxuries,
efieminate him ; and who, by pander-
ing to his pleasures, surfeit him, at the
same time that by doing these things
they degrade themselves; for why
should one man be a mere appendage
to another T*

^' But if all must work," said Annie,
'^ all cannot work in the same way. We
most have hewers of wood and draw-
ers of water, as well as poets and
philosophers. A community needs a
bead, as well as hands and feet
Suppose you were elected head of a
commimity, you would need servants
to do the manual labor ?**

^ True, but I would not badge them
for it," answered AlfVed, glancing at
the liveried servants, who were then
bringing in refreshments. ^ All men
must work for the common weal;
therefore, all labor is honorable ; and
no man need lord it over another, as if
himself were made of porcelain, and
the other of earthenware. An Amer-
ican philosopher has lately calculated
that in order to supply the world frith
necessaries, if each grown individual
were to work four hours a day, the
whole population of the world might
be hx better provided for than it is*
now."

''And what would they do with
their spare time ?" asked Annie.

Tk$ Godfrey FamUy; or, QuuHam of Oe JOag.

^What but in^rove their minds,
and employ their energies in loftier
labors — ^what bat erow oot of the
drudge into the man! Oh ! we have
yet to kara the wooden that are to
be achieved by a well-r^^olated oom^
monity. Men are scarcely men yet
Half of them are slaves to the mere
bread-winning to support their bodies,
and the other half are seeking phan-
toms — ^they are trying to find pleasure
in lording it over their fellows, or they
are driven lo excess by the mere
necessity of passing away time. It
is an unfair position to place a man
in, to set him above that reciprocal
dependence which binds man to man
as equals. It is a practical injustice
to individuals to sever them thus from
their kind, and prevent their feeling
their brotherhood.'' Alfred continued,
warming with his subject :

"TliCTC Are, deep scftted in the toman heart,
A thoniand thnlUnf , yearning iTicpaUiiee—
A thoneand tiee thiU bind at to oor kind—
A thoonnd pleaenree only there ex^Joyed
Id cheering Interoonne with fellow-man.
*Tls thus the Toloe of nature q>eaks aloud,
Prodaima from pole to pole the heay'n-bom

troth:
* Te are the children of one only God.
Learn to acknowledge yoor fraternity/

I think you have not seen my
poem on Human Brotherhood, Miss
Annie ?^

*^ I have not, but to judge from the
spedmen you have just quoted, I
should like very much to read it
These truths seem so evident now, it
is wonderful they have not been dis-
covered before."

"They have been discovered,
though not acted on. The fact is that
men's minds have been so trammelled
with superstition, they have been
afriud to tread out of the beaten
trade* They have been afraid to
reason, I scarce know why, even on
their own grounds. Yet matters are
mending in this respect I was pres-
ent the other day when an indignant
orator thus addressed his audience:

Shall he, the Author of life and
light, who has given to man, as the
rewaxd (^ the use of reason, the
power of travening the trackless

deep, and of drawing down the light-
ning innocuous from the skies — shall
he deny to his creature the privilege
of using his own gift on themes that
more inunediately concern man's
happineu? Oh no! believe it not!
Every good gift and every ^rfect
gift is from aWe, and cometh down
from the Father of light, with whom
is no variableness, neither shadow of
turning.' The audience he was ad-
dressing shouted applause; so vou
see the people's cause is progressmg,
and even Scripture is called in to aid
this desirable change."

" I wish Euphrasie could hear you
speak,'' said Annie; "she might
begin to believe that there is some
good in human learning, and that it
can promote true happiness. I must
introduce you to her more particular
acquaintance."

" No ; if she is a votary of ignor-
ance, pray don*t. I dislike silly un-
ideaed girls — ^they are the pest of
society."

" But Euphrasie is neither ; she is
only original and opinionated. Ideas
seem to grow with her indigenously ;
for no one can tell how she gets them ;
but they are very crude, aud directly
contrary to the spirit of progpession.
I wish you would convert her."

"I doubt it would be difficult,
and, to say the truth, I do not wish to
attempt it She is not my taste at
alL I prefer animation, zeal, sympa-
thy. She looks like a marble statue
of Contemplation ; well enough in its
way, but possessing no interest for
me, who am all for practical life."

'^ Euphrasie is a great thinker, and
thought aids practice. Ton had
better enlist her on your side; for
there is no saying how much she
might assist you, if once she could be
brought to see how happy a paradbe
you have planned for the human race.'*

But Alfred was by no means anxi-
ous for this. He evidently felt that
Euphrasie would not listen to him.
Perhaps he feared that she would set
Annie against himself, and mar his
own schemes in her regard ; for differ-

The Godfrey Family ; or^ QueetCam of the Dag.

ent as was their rank in life, and
improbable as it was that Mr. Grod-
frey should condescend to ally himself
with aught save the high aristocracy,
this young man intended, if possible,
to secure an interest in Annie's affec-
tions. •Not that he loved her; his
self-love was so absorbing that it
was almost impossible for him to love
any one save himself; but he thought
such an alliance would forward his
ambitious projects, and enable him to
begin life under favorable auspices.

Annie had no idea \*hatever beyond
the amusement of the passing hour,
and was more intent just now on mak-
ing a convert of the young refugee
than in paying regard to the homage
tendered her by Alfred. Euphrasie
was a difficult subject to deal with ;
but there are sonfie minds to whom
difficulty is an incentive.

She was one day sitting in the
library with Eugene, intent in depict-
ing on canvas the glories of the
" Golden Era." Euphrasie entered,
and sat down to some work. Annie
called to her :

" Now, my dear Euphrasie, come to
me. You are a judge of painting;
tell me what you think of my [)icture.*'

Euphrasie drew near. '' It is very
pretty," she said, '* but what dors it re-"
present ? Those peasants resting under
the fig-trees, those vine-dressers pluck-
ing the beautiful grapes, have very
graceful figures, and most happy and
intelligent iaces ; but what do they be-
long to?"

" To the new Utopia," said Annie,
" where all are intelligent and beautiful,
and where discord enters not."

Euphrasie looked dreamily in
Annie's face, and said doubtingly:
"Heaven? This is no picture of
heaven."

** No ; it is an earthly paradise,
ma ch\re amie. One need not die in
order to enjoy it," laughingly rejoined
Annie.

*' Oh ! a fancy piece," said Euphra-
sie ; " well, it is very pretty, but I
am no judge of fiction ;" and she sat
down.

" Fiction or not, I cannot let you off
80," said Annie ; " do you not think
it would be very pleasant to dwell
with a goodly number of intelligent
people, each taking his own share pf
work, and aiding in making life hapjly
— all good, all instructed and accom-
plished?"

"Pleasant? Ye*, very pleasant I
have lived with such," said Euphra-
sie ; " but their happiness was of a very
different kind to that which is deline-
ated here. *

"You have lived w^ith such!
Where, m the name of wonder?" asked
Annie.

" In France," said Euphrasie.

^ And what sort of happiness was
theirs P' asked Eugene, now thorough-
ly roused.

" I cannot tell you — that is, I could
not make you understand. Excuse
me," said Euphrasie, evidently sorry
she had said so mucli.

** And why not ? why could we not
understand ? ' asked brother and sis-
ter, both in a breath.

*• Because your principles are so
different,"

"Nay, then, explain the princi-
ples, ma chhre. You have excite<l
our curiosity; you must gratify it
now."

"Nay, I know not how. The
principles belong to the interior life,
and on that I cannot speak."

"Why not? are you sworn to se-
crecy ?** asked Annie. Eugene looked
his request for information, but spoke
not.

" Not so," said Euphrasie ; " but,
in the first place, I am no teacher ;
and, in the second, there are some
subjects which can only be approached
with reverence, and I am afraid — "
she hesitated.

" You are right, mademoiselle,"
said Eugene ; •* we have too little
reverence."

Euphrasie looked distressed. But
Annie broke in with — ^" But we can be
reverent, and we will be reverent when
the case demands it. Tell us your
principlasi dear Euphrasie."

The God/ret/ Family; or, Quetiions of the Day.

The joaDg girl, with evident relao
tance, said :

" Mj friends held that the soul had
been origlnallj endowed with power
over the mental faculties, as also over
the senses ai\d the appetites of the
bod V, and all inferior nature ; and that
that empire had been lost through
man's fault They believe that no
lasting, no high enjoyment can be pro-
cared until that empire has been
regained."

•^What kind of empire do you
mean ?* said Annie.

" As thus," replied Euphrasie.
" We will our foot to tread hero or
there, and it obeys us. We will our
hands to grasp or to work, and it is
done. But when we will our feelings
to be calm, or our appetites to keep
within certain limits, they do not al-
ways obey. Wc resolre, and find that
our i^solutions fail. We determine,
and do not act. When children, nay,
when grown people, are taxed with
domg wrong, they reply, * I could not
help it.' This is a confession of fail-
ure in self-government, or, as might
be said, a proof of empire lost."

** That is, supposing it admitted such-
empire once existed. But do you se-
riously tliink that perfect self-govern-
ment may be acquired, or, as you say,
regained?''

'^At least a near approach to it
may, if the proper means are used."

" And those means ?"

^ Are too serious for me to mention ;
besides, they are paradoxical in ap-*
pearance ; for, though impossible to
mere humanity, they are nevertheless
possible. But you must carry your
inquiry to a better teacher than I
am ;" and Euphrasie rose to depart.

" No ; we have no other teacher
near us, and I shall not let you go
until you have told me what I want
to know ;" and Annie laid her hand
somewhat forcibly on the young stran-
ger's arm, and compelled her to reseat
herself.

" Well, then," faltered out the poor
girU ^ when the soul was in pos^^ession
of its pristine empire, it had also the

power of communion with high spir-
itual intelligences — nay, with the high-
est — even with the creative intelli-
gence. The same fault that lost man
the high empire over all inferior na-
tures, and over his own appetites and
passions, bj disturbing the equilibrium
which primarily existed in the higher
part of his soul, also severed the bond
of that high spiritual communion ; and
that .bond must be reunited ere the
empire be restored to hini. Man of
himself cannot reunite that severed
bond, nor can he be happy without
such reunion ; because the higher
part of man's soul was created for such
high spiritual communion, and can no
more be content without it than could
our inferior senses without the gratifi-
cation they require. But what he
cannot do will be done for him, if he
prepare himself duly. He must build
the altar of sacrifice, lay on the wood,
prepare the victim. Fire from hea-
ven will then descend for his enlight-
enment, for his purificiition, and more
than he had lost may be regained."

"You speak oracularly, ma belle
amicy but .1 want something more
tangible yet. Tell me some of the
practical rules observed by your
friends ; may be I shall better under-
stand your sybilline wisdom then."

Euphrasie shook her head. " They
are too minute," she said. " You might
even think them childish.' But
Annie had not yet relaxed her grasp,
and appeared determined to be satis-
fied ; so Euphrasie continued : ** Nev-
ertheless, if you will promise to let
me go immediately after, I will give
you one of their rules of action."

" One, only one ?"

"One will be enough at a time.
When you have solved one rule, it
will be the time to ask for more."

" Solved one rule ? What do you
mean by that ?"

" There is a body and a soul to every
religious rule — the letter and the
spirit. Observance must be yielded
to both. I can only give you the
body. God only can teach you to
understand the spirit of it."

The Godfrey FamUy ; or, Quetiumi rf the Deig.

" Well ; proceed with your eoigma.''

^ You promise to let me go, whether
you understand it or not"

"Yes, provided the rule is practi-
cal," said Annie.

" Well, then," said Euphrasie, " one
reason that my friends were so happy
together — ^that though there were fifty
of them, there was no quarrelling, no
ill will, no envy — was, that they con-
stantly endeavored, each one of them,
to choose for herself the poorest
thuigs ; in her diet, the poorest fare ;
in her clothes, the coarsest habit ; in
her employment, the most humbling
functions."

** Impossible V* said Annie. " Stay,
cousin!" But Euphrasie had al-
ready made her escape, and her reluc-
tance to dwell on these subjects in
that presence was so evident that
Annie did not choose to pursue her,
and she was left to conjecture whether
the young French girl had been play-
ing on her credulity or not. The
mere fact that fifty ladies had been
guided practically by such a principle
as that given, was clearly beyond her
belief. Not so, however, did Eugene
decide. His interest in their young
and mysterious inmate was ever on
the increase. Each word she uttered
was gathered up as food for thought.
The ideas were new to him, and, not
only so, they were contrary to those
in which he hnd been educated, and he
had but a faint glimmering of their
meaning. Yet they worked strangely
within him, and fain would he have
sought explanation from that pale
sybil, but that for to-day she had for-
bidden it

When Annie also had left the
apartment, he walked up and down in
deep thought repeating to himself:

'^Man has lost the empire oyer
himself and over inferior nature."

^Man has lost the power of high
spiritual comrauaion."

^BiU these may he regained^*

"If this be true, any privation or
sacrifice may be undergone for their
repossession; too small the price,
whatever the cost But then, how can

contentment with the meanest things,
or filling the humblest offices, assist
this conclusion ? And this is bot one
role ; are the others of a like fashion 7*
The young man was faiiiy mystified ;
that the oracle had emitted truth,
he doubted not ; bat a due to the mean-
ing of that truth was wanting, and
where should he find that cine ?

OHAPTKB m.
THE "XARIAOE DB OOHYENAITCB.'*

Thebe was a visible excitonent in
the house; even Mr. Godfrey, ever
so solemn, and latterly so inclined
to severity, put on a cheerful appear*
ance ; people outside the family were
guessiny at the cause. For a kmg
time, guessing was the only thing they
could do ; even Madame de M^lior
was not in the secret until one moni-
ing she received a letter from M.
de Vllleneuve, which appeared to
contain some news, for she said to
Mr. Godfrey, who happened to be the
only one present : " Brother, can this
be true ?"

" Can what be true, my good
sister ?" was the question returned.

"That the Duke of Durimond is
coming here to marry Adelaide ?**

" Why should it not be true ?"

" Wliy, the duke is an old man I"

"Not at all; he was quite young
when he made proposals for Adelaide ;
surely you remember them."

" Remember them I Do you mean
the agreement you made at the dinner*
table, when AJdelaide was two years
old."

"The agreement was made before,
between his father and me; it was
ratified, then, by himself; be had just
come of age."

"And that is sixteen years aga
Will you give Adelaide to a man
of seven-and-thirty ?'

<• Why not, if she makes no ob-
jection ?*'

"Has she ever seen himf

Ti§ QoJ^ FamUg; ofy OvmUmm of A§ Da^.

*^YeSy she saw him in town last
winter; 'twas there he renewed his
ofier; hat, in fact, we have alwajs
corresponded. The dnke is fond ol
the arts; 'twas he sent those fine
pictures 70a admire so much,^'

^Ho can't know whether he likes
Adelaide or not, and she never struck
me as being in love all this time.'*

^ Pshaw I The duke has proposed ;
Adelaide is satisfied. The marriage
was agreed upon years ago; wluU
would jou have? I thought 70a'
knew the world hy this time."

This was taking madame b7 her
foible, so she said no more. Mrs.
Grodfre7 was simpl7 quiescent: she
was not accustomed to oppose her
husband's will, and, incredible as it
ma7 seem, the 7oung girl herself
offered no objection to the marriage
announced to her. To deck her brow
with a corcmet had charms enough
fiir the deepl7 fostered pride of that
young heart to induce her to £orego
the prospect of love, S7mpath7, and
domestic happiness ; she 8impl7 covet-
ed rank and power. The duke had
immense revenues ; he offered ample
settlements : what mattered it that he
was thirty-seven, and she but sweet
eighteen ? Marriages occurred ever7
ds7 in which the disparity was more
glaring. What matteied it that she had
Bcarcel7 seen the noble duke; that
she knew little of his private life, or
of his tastes and feelings ? He was
a nobleman of. high birth ; he paid
her courtl7 compliments, presented
ber with a magnificent casket of
jewels; pleaded his long absence on
the Ccmtinent in excuse for his appa-
rent want of attention to herself; ajid
urged his long friendship and un-
hiSken correspondence with her fa-
ther as a plea for hurrying on his
hsppiness; and thus, almost un-
wooed, the fiur Adelaide was won.
Poor girl, the chief idea in her bead
was that she should like to be a duch-
ess ; and thus both she and her father
ooiitrived to overiook the &ct that but
little allusion had been made to the
poposed altianoe in the sixteen years'

correspondence on art and science
that had been maintained between the
gentlemen. The matter had been
settled 7ears ago. There was little
occasion for the world to interfere, if
the parties concerned were satisfied.
The father s scientific friend was
neces8aril7 a fitting husband for the
daughter. And so the preparations
went forward. The house was filled
for a time with dress-makers and
bandboxes, and when these were
dismissed, there came guests to wit-
ness the bridaL Among these was
the Comte de 'Vllleneuve, whom we
have alread7 introduced to our read-
ers ; a friend of both families was the
comte, and had been a friend too of
the late Comte de M^lior. This
made him welcome also to Madame
de Meglior and Euphrasie ; indeed he
treated the latter with distinguished
attention, and she' seemed more at
her ease with him than with any per-
son at the HalL M. d«i YiUeneuve
was thirty-five years of age, but good-
looking and animated, v^d Madame
de Meglior was in some slight degree
uneasy at first at the evident friend-
ship he evinced for Euphrasie, for she
did not approve of disproportionate
marriages, and she thought Adelaide's
example a bad one. GraduaUy,
however, she became so absorbed in
the duties imposed upon ber by Mrs.
Godfrey of directing the embellish-
ments, that she forgot to look after
the object of her solicitude in the sub-
ject wliich suited her better. Living
as she had been wont to do in the gay
circles of Parisian exclusives, she
was regarded as a very oracle of
fashion and elegance, and consequently
she willingly took the lead in plan-
ning the arrangements for the bridal
day.

The young people were in a puzsle,
Annie especially. It was the first act
of unblushing worldliness she had
ever witnessed. She felt as if she
did not know the world she lived in.
She looked at her mother ; there was
no joy on her &ce; she looked at
Adelaide ; already the young girl hod

Ths Godfrt^ Family; or^ QuetHmu of ike Day.

assumed her rank ; the calm hantear,
the majestic politeness, with which she
received her guests, astonished everj
one. Adelaide was born to command,
every one felt it ; none more so than
Annie, who had been so fondly at-
tached to that sister from whom she
felt already severed.

"O Euphrasie!" she said to her
cousin , as they were walking together
in the grounds that surrounded the
house, ** you must be my sister when
Adelaide is gone ; it will be so dreary
to have no one of my own age to love
and talk to ; will you not try to love
meP'

**I love you already, dear; you
must not talk in that way — how can
I do other than love you ? *

"I was afraid you thought me a
reprobate whom it was a sin to love."
This was said half playfully, but the
tears started to Euphrasie's eyes.

**You a reprobate! a sin to love
you who have been so kind to the poor
orphan girl ! O Annie ! have I really
been so ungi^iteful as to give you this
idea ? '

'*No, dear, nol not so; but I se-
riously thought you deemed all human
nature utterly depraved, and did not
wish to form strong attachments with
those not of your creed.'

"If human nature were utterly
depraved, how could it hear the voice
of God in the soul ? and if you here
were utterly depraved, would you
have opened your house and your
heart to the wandering outcast ?*'

"Then you do not think religion
essential to goodness? How is that,
then r

" Man was made in the image of
Goil, my dear Annie, and even his
natural qualities be^ir witness to tliis,
unless, indeed, he become utterly de-
praved."

" You do not, then, exclude us from
your heaven," said Annie, embracing
her. " I am so glad ; you will be my
friend and sister, Euphrasie."

Euphrasie warmly returned the
embrace, and said : " I have no
heaven to exclude you from, dear

Annie, but if you wish for eternal
bliss, you must offer your natural
qualities to him who alone can stamp
eternity upon them.**

« And how shall I do that, dear ?"

"Pray to God, and he will teach
you."

" I would rather have your teaching
just now; tell me, if you beh'eve
human nature to be good, what is
meant by 'original sin,* as it affects
us. I know the story of Adam and
Eve, but not what it means."

"Adam was created with certain
natural qualities, even as the inferior
animals were, adapted to the part
he was to perform as lord of earth;
these qualities were good, nay, in
Adam perfect. They are transmitted
to us, shorn of their brightness by the
fall, but still they are good, though
imperfect now. Natures differ in
individuals, but some have very high
qualities, very lofty aspirations. Have
you not noticed this ?"

" Well, I used to think so, but — "

"But whatr

" No matter what ; tell me, what
are we to do with our high qualities
more than cultivate them, and act upon
them?"

" Bring them under supernatural
action, that they may be purified,
refined, and stamped with the seal of
immortal tnith.**

" Is tliis your religion T*

" I know no other."

The approaich of M. de Villeneuve,
who was gathering flowers for Hester
to make into bouquets, prevented
further conversation. The merry
girl was making garlands, and flung
them round Euphrasie and Annie as
they approached. " Now sit down
here,*' she said, "and I will crown
you both as victims to the sacrifice.
M. de Villeneuve shall be the priest.
What deity will you cffer these vic-
tims to, monsieur? They arc ready
bound. '

"That is a serious question; we
must take time to consider, and luck-
ily here oomes Eugene to solve the
question for us* What divinity rules

Th€ Godfrey FcmiUy ; or^ Quettiom of ike Day.

bere, joang man? your sister wants
to offier up these two victims to the
genius of the place."

"Indeed, it were difBicult to saj;
ours is a pantheistic worship just
now, and we wiU defer the rite until
we know what star is in the ascendxuit
What beautiful ceremonies those old
worshippers used to have ! We might
raise an altar to Flora, I think, just to
use to advantage Hester's flowers."

" Mademoiselle Euphrasie would
find a use for your flowers, without
going to a heathen goddess," said M.
de Villeneuve. ** All beauty symbol-
izes good with her, and all nature re-
veals some truth."

** What a splendid idea, monsieur I"
said Annie. ^How did you know
that it was Euphrasie's ? did she tell
you so ?"

*^ Not in words, but I know her of
old ; to her there was a spirit in every
flower, a mystic word in every form.
Matter was the expression of mind,
it9 language in a certain sense; and
she was ever inquiring its meaning."

**You are laughing at me, mon-
sieur,'* said Euphrasie ; " but those
were pleasant days at the old chateau,
irhen you used to scold me because I
irould not reason, but only enjoy."

** Nay," said Annie, " by monsieur's
account you did reason, and very
beautifully too. Some people want
bard words and long-drawn deductions
ff»r apprehension of what to others is
mgpiration. I Hke the inspiration
best."

" It is the easiest, at any rate," said
Eugene.

•• To those to whom it comes,' said
tbe Frenchman ; ^ the materialism of
oar day stifles inspiration; men see
only in rocks and stones a moneyed
Tahie. Niagara is valued loss than a
mill-turning stream. Inspiration is no
longer believed in."

The wedding-day approached, and
aU were busy tr^dng to make a show
of gladness, which, however, they but
imperfectly succeeded in eflecting;
bat what was wanting in hilai'ity was

more than compensated for in dignity
and magnificence. M. de Villeneuve
acted as groomsman, Annie and Hes-
ter as bridesmaids, Euphrasie excused
herself on account of her mourning
habit, which she decluied to remove ;
she was not visible during the whole
day and one or two subsequent ones.
And now the hour was come which
was to place a coronet on that fair
brow ; but could the courtly bride-
groom have seen how little he entered
into the thoughts of his young bride,
perchance he had been but half
pleased, even though she was as stately
and as fair as his great pride demand-
ed. But love, esteem, or mutual
respect entered into the thoughts of
neither during the time that the
Bishop of Chichester was marrying
them by special license, in the drawing-
room at Estcourt Hall.

This same arrangement was a great
disappointment to the townspeople.
They had been desirous of witnessing
the ceremony, and were not well-
pleased that the duke had not honored
the church with his presence. The
duke, however, Uked not to be gazed
at, and the sight-seers had no oppor-
tunity of gratifying their curiosity till
the bridal party left the house.

Tlie public entrance was besieged
by expectant congratu Inters, who wait-
ed to shower bouquets over the bloom-
ing biide. Biit here again they
were doomed to disappointment ; for,
to avoid this publicity, which was
distasteful to them, the bridal party
walked through that portion of the
splendid grounds which had been
specially decorated for the occasion,
and entered their carriages at the
opposite side of the park. They were,
however, obliged to pass through part
of the town, and shouts of ** they come
— they com 3 1" resounded as the car-
riages mad5 their appearance. The
road lay down a deep hollow, on the
turn leading to which stood a small
inn. The road was so steep that the
drivers necessarily checked the horses,
in order to pass safely down the declivi-
ty. At the cry raised of " they come

The Godft-ey Family ; or, Questtont qf the Dojf,

— tbey come!** a woman elegawtlj
dressed ran out of the inn, and ga«ed
wild I J at the carriages. At that
moment ihe duke put his hejid out of
lUe window to see what occasioned the
delay, caught the eye of the woman,
turned pale, and hastily bade the coach-
man drive oo*

The woman shrieked, rather than
said, "Tis be I O my God!" and
fell to the ground in a fainting lit.

The bystanders raised htT — the
carriage pasi?ed ; but the spirit of the
crowd seemed changed, they scarcely
knew why ; they crowded round the
woman ; they questioned her ; and
each seemed eager to afford her help*
But, as soon as her strength permitted,
she withdrew without grati tying their
evident curiosity, merely apologizing
for her passing weakness, and delib-
erately saying she would recover best
when alone. The style, the manner,
the elegance of the stranger interested
them all, and with difficulty did they
persuade tliemselves to abandon their
inquiries. The groups which had col-
lected to congratulate the bride wei*e
now occupied in discussing the ap-
pearance of the stranger, and many
surmises were hazarded as to her con-
nection with the newly wedded pair.

Mean lime that lady oi'dered a po^t-
cbaise to be got ready, and, ere half
recovered, entered it, to the great dis-
cern frture of the gaping crowd, whom
she thus left to their conjectures.

The landlord was now besieged wilh
questions, but he could tell nothing of
importance* The lady came the pre-
vious evening ; gave ber tmme as Mrs*
El I wood; made many inquiries con-
cen>ing the family at Eatcourt Hall,
and hud the duke*8 person described to
her; seemed restless, agitated; went
out» and hovered round Mr. Godfrey ^s
residence till nightfall; then return-
ed and locked herself immediately in
her bed-chamber. In the morning she
rose late, ate little or nothing, but sat
watching and listening inteutly, till
•be issued forth to enact the scene de-
scribed. The townspeople shook their
beads, and wished Miss Grodfrey, now

the Duchess of Durimond, rolgfat not

be the worse for it, Adelaide hai

been very popular among tUenu mnt

the public testivities on tiir

her wedding were not so

but for this iDcident, they wtxild kift

been.

The inmates of the hall, however*
were as yet in happy ignorance of tbi
ominous conjectures raised re«|)
the fate of the fairest and dk^
daughter of their house. The incident
we have rekt^^d came to their know-
ledge as an accidental circumsianoe^
altogether unconneeted with the wcd^
ding. Mr. and ^frs. Godlrey wera
well pleased a( their daughter's aooet-
fiion to rank and power, and the meny
Heater lauj^hed delightedly at the an-
ticipation of shortly visiting tlie ancient
castle of wtiich her sister waa now
mistress* promising herself much in-
terest and delight in rambling amid
the ancient chambers, which had been
the scene of famed historic deeds.
Aunie was pondering whether her
sister's nmk could consist with the
newfangled ideas of liberty and equal-
ity that the times were teaching.
She was wondering whether high rank
were a fetter or a privilege — a reUc
of man's ignorance or a h^lp to man's
advancement, Eugene hoped that
the ^ old man " would use his sister
well He had not been pleased with
his new brother-in-law; he was too
courtly, too stately for friendliness^
and altogether the whole affair had
l«Kiked too much like bartering youth,
beauty, and inlelligence for rank and
wealtk He had entertained high ideas
of woman's purity, of woman's dero-
tedne^s^ of woman's dieinterestedneas,
and what was he to think ? His beau-
tiful his giJletl* his cultivated siater
had sold hei*8f If for a ducal coronet 1
Was it true, then, as Shelley sing8»
^^thnt all ihings are venal, and thai
even a woman s heart may be put up
in an auction mart?^

Soon afier the wedding, the joong
man sought but did not obtain per-
mission to go abroad. In default of
this he went to Cambridge, and said

Tie CMfity Famify; or, QuutiMi of ike Day.

to lumself he inlended to find oat
Truth.

The societj of an English nniver-
titj 18 Tery varioos. Ahnost anj dis-
position may suit itself there. The
bobteixmsy the idle, the reckless, the
gaj, the meditatiye, and the sober,
with the refined and the sentimental,
alike are there, and it is of no small
importance to a young man to be well
introduced on the outset. Mr. God-
frey, himself a Cambridge man, could
not fail to procure every advantage for
his son, and that son felt himself en-
titled to stand proudly on his father s
position, not only as a country gentle-
man, but as a scientific man, for, as we
have already hinted, the Honorable
Hr. Godfrey was an exception to the
ordinaiy stamp of the English country
gentlemen of that day. He cared
more for his library than he did for his
hounds and horses, and though he him-
self was far from being a profound
searcher into nature's secrets, he was
a great patron of science and of sci-
entific men. Eugene had then little
to fear from friendlessness ; he was
well cared for, and his friends were
sober, well-conducted men.

But accompanying him to college
was <H]e whose society he would not
willingly have sought
* Frederic Morley, son of the lawyer
at Estcoort, had early given evidence
of a studious disposition, and his
fiUheV wished to bring him up to the
dumrh, as, by means ^ Mr. Ghodfrey's
patronage, he hoped to push him into
lome church preferment. The young
man, however, was in fujcX a sentimen-
talist, a transcendentalist, too refined,
too sensitive, for this world of stem
reality. Petted at home as' a poet, he
held himself superior to common in-
ibences, prided himself on having a
Ine mind, on possessing elegant and
cahivated tastes, and affected disgust
at the coarse, homespun ideas of or-
dinary people. He wrote pathetic tales
of unrealities ; touching verses of de-
spairing afifection, with which it was
las del^t to draw forth tears of sym-
pathy from young lady audiences.

A more uninteresting companion
Eugene Godfrey could scarcely have
met ; yet as his disposition was nat-
urally kind and urbane, and as Mor-
ley was without friends or acquaint-
ances in the university, he continued
his friendship to him, and endeavored
to direct his attention to earnest themes
and loftier subjects. This, however,
was unwelcome to so clever a person
as Morley believed himself to be. He
wanted no direction even from the
cleverest. All he sought for was ap-
preciation, sympathy. He could think
for himself, and guide himself. The
study of Aristotie's Ethics was in
his case soon supplanted by Paiae*s
Age of Reason and Volnejr's Ruins
of Empires. The coarseness of the
former author he termed "wit"
and the sophistry of the latter pass-
ed with him for " wisdom.^' Eugene
felt sorry for these freaks, for in in-
dulging them Frederic Morley was
throwing away his livelihood ; he en-
deavored to reason with him, and then
he became vexed that he had so few
efficient arguments to bring forward,
and none but interested motives to
present. Was he to tell Frederic to
be a hypocrite, and to study theology
for a " living?" He felt rather tiian
knew the foolish boy was pursuing a
phantom, and was urged forward by
very selfish motives, yet he could not
explain his own ideas, vague, myste-
rious, and undefined as they were.

" There U a fire
And motion in the toal, which will not dwell
In its own narrow being ; but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire,
And but onoe kindled, quenchless evermore.'*

This Eugene felt, but why he felt
it, or how to satisfy it, he knew not.
The words of Euphrasie, " that per-
haps there is a science of mind, more
worth than all the science of matter,*'
recurred continually, for in that sci-
ence must lie the solution of every
difficulty that beset him. How could
he learn this science 1 how investigate
this truth, if truth it were ? And he
wandered hour after hour on the
banks of the Cam, in profound medi-

The Godfrey Family; otj QueHume of tk$ Dag.

tatioD, burjing himself in the thickets
near to avoid observation.

" O truth r* exclaimed he aloud one
day, in the intense excitement of his
feelings — *• O truth ! if ever thou deign-
est to visit mortals, reveal thyself to
me ; teach me the way, and by all
that is holy or dear to me, I swear to
follow thee !"

He was leaning against a tree ; the
drops stood on his forehead, caused
by the depth of his emotion, and sud-
denly the answer came : ** Pray,
child of aspirations, bow in prayer."

Eugene started ; looked around ;
DO form was visible, but again the
words were repeated : " Pray, seeker
for truth, pray ! it will come to thee."

CHAPTEB IV.

MAGNETIC INFLUENCES.
" DelioU he prayeth."

" Prat, ])ray !" repeated Eugene ;
" what is prayer ? Is it to hold com-
munion with a higher being ? To be
raised above the niist^ of this murky
earth ? If so, how glad I should be
to pray ! ' and involuntarily he ex-
chiimed : *' O mighty Being, who
rulest all, if indeed thou wiliest to
communicate with man, instruct me
how to approach thee ; my mind is
dark and sad. Oh ! teach me truth."
Eugene Godfrey v/as sincere ; he
wished for truth ; but educated in
scornful intellectual supremacy, edu-
cated to tolerate religion as a means
of kee[)ing in order the lower classes,
it was difficult for him to comprehend
how **fiiiih" could exist otherwise
than as a beautiful |)oetic fancy, to be
classed with the imagery of the Iliad
or the Odyssey.

The H'al, the sentient, had been his
study, and till the horrors of the French
Revolution turned his mind to consid-
er how man could influence man by
higher motives than merely getting
" good things for one's self," he had
been satisfied to leave these themes
unthought of. But now they were
forced apou him. Events unprece-

dented in the annals of the world bade
him lay aside physical science and tun
to study mental and moral influences.
He had heard enough in the little town
to which he belonged to feel sure that
the multitude must be cared for, most
be looked, to. He saw his father un-
easy at every commotion, lest the Elog-
lish aristocracy should likewise be sent
on their travels. He saw Alfred
Brookbank hating his own brother,
because that brother stood beiwecn
him and a property ; and his sister —
his fearless sister, accomplished, beau-
tiful, the very epitome of a refined
lady — he dared not think of her ! Oh !
for a motive to raise these groveling
aims I Oh ! for purity, heroism, good.
But for the vision of Euphrasie, all
would have been darkness then. Such
-were Eugene's thoughts as he bent
his steps to his chambers and sat down
in his easy chair to indulge in this
absorbing reverie.

How long he sat he scarcely knew,
but at length he became conscious that
he was not alone. He had forgotten
to '* sport his oak'* (as closing the ouler
door was called by the students) in
token that he wished to be alone, and
Fi-ederic Morley had entered, and,
perceiving him so engrossed, had
quietly seated himself without speak-
ing, till Eugene gave signs of life. *

" Ah, Morley, is that you ? how long
have you been there ?"

** I scarcely know, Mr. Eugene ; I
have been watching your absent
thoughts. You were so still, I might
have supposed you magnetized, but I
suppose the great wizjird would 'not
take so great a liberty with you."

** What wizard ?'* asked Eugene.

*' Have you not heard, then ? There
is a man here who can throw a person
into a trance, and make him re^-eal all
kinds of secrets," answered Frederic

" Pshaw !'* said Eugene.

" Nay," answered Frederic, '^^ I will
tell you what I saw. I was at Mrs.
Moreton's yesterday evening, singing
duets with Isabel, and young Moreton
came in with a tall, dark-haired, mus-
tachioed, whiskered fellow, with eyes

TU Chdfrt^ Famihf; Wj Qusstiom of th$ Dd^.

Eke lighted coals, they were so large and
piercing. Where Moreton picked him
np, I could not find out, hut he was
evidently Iksdnated with hiou He in-
troduced him laughingly to his moth-
er as a great wizard, and they inte.r-
nipted the music to hear him talk. He
was grandiloquent enough, told tales
of spirits and influences that haunt
me still ; but more than this, he insist-
ed that mind can influence mind irre-
ipective of matter ; that the old tales
of magic were true, and the deeds
wrought by men of wondrous power,
who had found the key to nature's
nighty secrets— only nature with him
does not mean inert matter as we
mean by it, but matter and intelli-
gences who act upon matter. The
nnirerse, he says, is peopled by won-
teus forms, and these forms can be
communicated with by a priyileged
VMiL Oh, he is a mighty man 1" and
Frederic shuddered.

^And you 'have no more sense
tkn to beiiere such a cock-and-bull
story as that? Fie, Morley, I am
I tthsmedofyour

! *" But let me tell you what I saw
I ^ my own eyes. He first threw
Isabel into a trance, from which
I neither Mrs. Morley, nor her brother,
I oor F oouki awaken her. Then when
Mrs. Morley grew frightened, he as-
sQtcd her there was no danger, that
Bhe was only bewitched by his art,
U)d that he would make her talk as
lie pleased. Then he put her broth-
er's hand in hers, and bade him think
of the walk he had taken that afler^
fiooD, of the people he had met and
ipoken to ; he did so, and the wizard
bade the girl speak, and she recount-
ed the events of the walk from his
learing college to his meeting with
the wizard, and their entering the
twrnk in which we were — all, as her
brother declared, correctly. The wiz-
ard then disenchanted her, and she
slowly roused herself, pale and listless,
but quite unconscious of what had
piaaed.*

**! hare heard of animal magnet-
im befine^" quietly responded Eugene.

TOL. IT. 4

" Have you ? But do you know its
power? It is absolutely frightful. He
lifted my arm before I knew what he
was about, passed his hand two or
three times above and below it, and
there it remained fixed horizontally
from the shoulder, without my hav-
ing power to move it up or down.
Young Moreton tried to pu^ it down
for me, but he could not ; and there I
stood fixed till it pleased the wizard
to unloose the spell he had cast
around me."

** Yours was not an agreeable posi-
tion, truly," said Eugene, " but he did
not hurt you ; you are safe and sound
now.**

" Yes, but the most wonderful is
yet to come. Little Helen Moreton
came into the room to bid her mamma
good-night. Seeing the stranger, she
was shy, and went to the window-cur-
tains to hide. Mrs. Moreton called
her, but she looked out for a minute,
seemed to take a greater dislike to the
stranger than before, and hid again.
Mrs. Moreton was annoyed, and the
wizard said : ' Do you want her, ma-
dam ? If so, I will bring her to you.*
But Mrs. Moreton replied, * Oh no !
if you go near her she will shriek and
cry; she is so shy.' *Nay,* said the
man, ' I will stand here, and here she
shall come without a shriek, and lie
down at my feet.' What he did we
could not find out, for he seemed per-
fectly stilL The window-curtain un-
folded, and apparently against her
will the child came forward. She
caught at a chair, as if determined to
resist the influence, but that seemed to
urge her forward ; she let it go, and
then grasped the table with both hands,
as if determined to resist. She pouted,
she frowned, she strove to keep her
place, but keep it she could not. Step
by step she came and laid herself
quietly down at the wizard's feet.
Mrs. Moreton almost shrieked, but the
child lay as if she dar«d not leave
until the magician gave permission."

"Well, and what do you infer from
all this ?" asked Eugene.

^ I hardly know; I am terrified; what

The Godfrey FmOy; or^ QuetUom of Ae Detg.

if it IS true, as this man says, that
weak minds must obey the strong;
that resistance is useless ? I should not
like to become the slave of a spirit
such as his."

" You believe him to be a wicked
man ?"

" I do, yet I kuow not why ; I should
not like- to meet him when unpro-
tected."

'*Why, Morley, you astonish me;
I could not conceive you so weak.
These fears are unworthy a noble
mind."

" But what are we to do if such tlieo-
ries be true ?*'

" They are not true — at least not in
the way you state them. There are
protecting, counteracting influences for
the weakest.* I cannot explain all this
to-night ; but all history, all experience
go to prove that the * race is not always
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong '
— that bad power is often overcome by
weak means. I will repeat to you a
piece of advice I received myself
to-day, and which I intend to take. It
is one you must often have received, for
your father intends you for the church.
Pray, Morley, to the highest of all in-
telligences, to the gi-eatcst of all pow-
ers. The strongest will then be in-
voked to your aid."

*• Pray f Are you serious, Mr, Eu-
gene 1"

" I am serious ; why doubt it ?"
" An advice so contrary to the spirit
of the age ! why, it is the last to be ex-
pected,"

" Perhaps so ; but listen : That
mind is not matter, your experience
proves, as does tiiat of most people.
What mind is, perhaps we do not know ;
but that mind acts upon mind, irre-
spective of space and obstacles, we
feel. Listen ! you know my family ;
a family less * superstitious scarcely
exists. We are too much wedded to
cause and effect lightly to believe.
My grandfather was as little credulous
aa my father. Now hear what hap-
pened to him. He had a brother to
whom he was fondly attached, and by
whom he was as fondly loved. Hieir

correspondence was constant That
brother went to India, as an officer.
One night about twelve o'clock^ aa my
grandfather was going to sleep, ha?-
ing sat up later than osaal, the cur-
tains at the foot of the bed were with
drawn, and his brother, pale, but in
full regimentals, appeared and said,
*Good-by, Frank*' My grandfather
related the circumstance at breakfast
next morning, and noted it down in
writing, being confident that he was not
asleep. After due time the Indian
mail arrived, giving an account ci the
brother's death on the field of battle
at the exact hour and day specified.
Ere his spirit winged its flight, we
know not whither, it had communi-
cated with the being it loved best on
earth."

Frederic turned pale. ** What do
you infer from this f* he asked.

"Simply this," returned Eugene;
" that * there are more things in heav-
en and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt
of in your philosophy,' and this influ-
ence of mind on mind is one of them.
If the Supreme Ruler have made a
law that man, to be assisted by him.
must pray to him, must put himself in
communication with him, who are we
that we should reftise the means ? If
you fear the evil spirit in a man, try
if there be no good spirit capable of
protecting you. The universal testi-
mony of mankind is in favor of super-
natural agencies. We should ponder
well ere we throw from us such aid."
Frederic smiled, and rose to take
his leave. Advice so different from
what he had expected was scarcely
likely to be well received. He had no
answer ready, so he left the narrow-
minded religionist to his own crude
fancies.

And Eugene closed the oaken door,
and returned, and for the first time of
his life knelt down to beseech light
from the Author of light — flight to
guide him through these wearisome
shoals of doubt and darkness — light
to show him something more than
how to render matter subservient to
animal comfort — lig^t to enlighten the

JMependenee of the Ohtarch.

inward feeling. Good and eyil, what
are thej ? Mind and matter — which is
the true reality ? What are we to live
for — ^thc animal life, or the spiritual ?
And is the purely spiritual distinct
from the purely intellectual as well as
from the animal ? Is there a soul, the
functions of which are different, dis-

tinct, from those of the body, and to
the knowledge of which mere inteUect
cannot arrive? What is nature?
What is revelation ? How do they act
upon each other ? What is the office,
what the aim of each? Revolving
these themes, it was deep in the night
ere the young man sought his couch.

TO VB oonuruKS.

INDEPENDENCE OF THE CHURCH.

OuB age is more sentimental than
intellectual, more philanthropic than
Christian, more material than spiritual.
It may and no doubt does cherish and
seek to realize, with such wisdom as it
has, many humane and just sentiments,
bot it retains less Christian thought
than it pretends, and has hardly any
conception of catholic principles. It
studies chiefly phenomena, physical or
psychical, and as these are all Individ-
ud, particular, manifold, variable, and
transitory, it fails to recognize any real-
ity that is universal, invariable, and
permanent, superior to the vicissitudes
of time and place, always and every-
where one and the same. It is so in-
tent on the sensible that it denies or
forgets the spiritual, and so engrossed
with the creature that it loses sight
of the creator.

Indeed, there are not wanting men
in this nineteenth century who deny
that there is any creator at all, or that
anything has been made, and maintain
that all has been produced by self-de-
Telopment or growth. These men,
who pass for the great scientific lights
of the age, tell us that all things are in
a continual process of self-formation,
which they call by the general name
of progress ; and so taken up are they

with their doctrine of progress, that
they gravely assert that God himself,
if Grod there be, is progressive, perfec-
tible, ever proceeding fi om the imper-
fect towards the perfect, and seeking
by unremitting action to perfect, fill
out, or complete his own being. They
seem not to be aware that if the perfect
does not already really exist, or is
wanting, there is and can be no pro
gress ; for progress is motion towards
the perfect, and, if the perfect does not
exist there can be no motion towards
it. and in the nature of the case the mo-
tion can be only towards nothing, and
therefore, as St. Thomas has well de-
monstrated, in proving the impossibil-
ity of progress without end, no motion
at all. Nor do they seem any more to
be aware that the imperfect, the in-
complete, is not and cannot be self-
active, or capable of acting in and
from itself alone, and therefore has not
the power in itself alone to develop
and complete itself, or perfect its own
being. Creatures may be and arc
progressive, because they live, and
move, and have their being in their
Creator, and are aided and sustamed by
him whose being is eternally complete
who is in himself infinitely perfect
They forget also the important fact

InApen^knce of At Church

tliat where there ij notbin^ univei'sa],
there can tje nothing purlieu lar, that
where tliere is nothing invariable there
can be nothing variable^ that where
there is nothing permanent there C4in
be nolhing tmnsitory, and that where
there is no real being tlierc can be no
phenomena, any more than lliere can
be ereatioa without a creator, action
without an actor, appearance without
anything that appears, or a sign that
Hiignific3 nothing.

Now tlie age, regarded in its dom-
inant tciidency* neglects or denies this
univerBal^ invariable, persiastent, real,
or ftpirifual order, and ita highest and
mmi catholic prhiciples are mei*e
chissifications or generalizations of vi-
sible phenomena, and therefore ab-
stractions, without reality, without life
or efficiency. It understanda not that
throughout the univei^se tlie visible is
gjinbolical of the invisitde, and that to
the pn-pared m'md there is an invisible
but living reaht}' .sigailied by the oh-
Bervable phenomena of nature, as in
ttio Christian economy an Invisible
grace is Bignified by the vii^ible sacra-
itnental pign. All nature is in some
sense sacrameuta!, but the age takes
it only fi» an empty sign signifying
tiothing. Hence the enibttrnk^sment
of the Christian theotogian in ad-
dressing it ; the gymbob he uses and
au8t use have for it no meaning. He
^deala and must deal with an order of
Ifltought of which it has little or no
b conception. He is as oncs^K^aking to
f » man who haa no bearing, or exhibit-
I ing colors to a man who has no sight,
1 He ipeaks of tlie transcendental (o
) tliose who recognize nothing above the
I'Sensiblo — of the spiritual to men who
are of the earth earthy, and have lost
the faculty of rising above the mate-
rial, and piercing beyond the visible.
The age has fallen, even intellect-
ually, far below the Christian order of
thought, and is apparently unable to
rise even in conception to the great
catholic principles in acxx)rdance with
> which the uniTerse is created, sustain-
€d« and governed.

Nobody in his senses dented that

man is progressive^ ar
cm society has made manrdkoi
progress in the material order, k
tlie application of science to tb«
productive arts. I am no iamhi^t
temporis acU ; I undenstand aiui Jip-
preoiate tlie advantages of the preMQt;
and do not doubt that steam imvi-
gation, railroads, and lightning tele-
graphs, which bid deBauce to the wiud^
and waves, and as it were annihilate
space and time, will one day be made
to subserve higher than mere material
interests ; but I cannot shut ixij ejtt
to the fact that in many and very im*
portaat respects, the modem world luu
deteriorated instetid of improving, and
been more suceessiiil in losing than
in gaining. The modem natiomcoia-
monly regarded, at least by thcmael^'efti
as tije more advanced nations^ have
fidleu iQ moral and religious thought
below the ancient Greeks and RotDaae*
They may Imve more sound dogmaai,
but they have less conception of prin-
ciples, of the invisible or spiritu.-il or-
der, excepting always the followers of
LeucippuSj DemocrituB,and Epicums,
whose absurd materialism is revived
with hardly any disguise by the most
approved thinkers of our own age.
The Geti tiles generally held catholic
principles, but raisappr eh ended and
misappHed them, and thus fell into
gi:X)Ss idolatry and degrading and be-
sotting supei"3tilion ; but the modems
while reuiining many Catholic dogmas
have lost the meaning of the word
principle. The Catholic can detect,
no doubt, phases of truth in all the
doctrines <>f those outside the church,
but the Chriatianify they profess has
no niiivei-sal, immutable, and imperish-
able principle, and degenerates in
practice into a blind and fierce fanati-
cism» a watery sentiinentahty, a base-
less humanitarianism, or a collection
of unrelated and unmeaning dogmas*
which are retained only because they
are never exximined»and which can im-
part no light to the understanding, in-
fuse no bfe into the hearty and impose
no restraint on the appetites and paa-
gions.

paa-

Indepmdenee of the Okurck'

log fallen below the conception
aI order above the visible and
aenal, and sunk to complete
«eism, which believes in neither
lor spirit, the age makes war on
irch because she asserts such
ind remains fast anchored in it ;
i she is immovable and invaria-
as her enemies say, stationary,
ressive, and therefore hostile to
». She has, it is said, the
ce to attempt to teach and

men and nations, instead of
lly submitting to their views
^hes, and bestowing her blessing
r exertions for the liberty and
)s of society. The age denies
le the church of God, because she

prove herself to be the church
I, holding simply from a human
ty. It denies her divine origin,
ition, and authority, because
fttable, cannot be carried away
ry wind of doctrine, does not
every popular impulse, and
me to time resists individuals,
ilers, the people even, and op-
their favorite theories, plans,
leasures, whenever she finds
t war with her mission and her
X applauds her, indeed, to the
hen she appears to be on the

what happens to be popular,
demns her without mercy when
poses popular error, popular
K>pular injustice, and asserts
K>pular truth, defends the un-
' cause, or uses her power and
« in behalf of neglected justice,
ads with her divine eloquence

poor, ihe wronged, the down-
. Yet this Ls precisely what
•uld do, if the church of Grod,
U it would be contrary to her
and office on that supposition
o,

age concedes nothing to the
and etemaL In its view re-
self is human, and ought to be
to man, and determinable by
dictated by the people, who in
[em mind usurp the place of
[t should not govern, but be
d, and govemed from below,

not from above ; or rather, in its sub-
version of old ideas, it holds that being
govemed from below is being governed
from above. It forgets that reUgion, ob-
jectively considered, is, if anything, the
revelation and assertion of the divine
order, or the universal and etemal
law of God, the introduction and
maintenance in the practical aSsan of
men and nations of the divine element,
without which there would and could
be nothing in human society invaria-
ble, permanent, or stable — persistent,
independent, supreme, or authoritative.
The church is simply the divine con-
stitution and organ of religion in
society, and must, like religion itself,
be universal, invariable, independent,
supreme, and authoritative for all men
and nations. Man does not originate
the church. She does not depend on
man, or hold from him either individu-
ally or collectively ; for she is institut-
ed to govern him, to administer for
him the universal and eternal law, and
to direct and assist him in conducting
himself in the way of his duty, to his
supreme good, which she could not do
if she held from and depended on him.
The point here insisted on, and
which is so far removed from the
thought of this age, is, that this order
transcending the phenomenal and the
whole material or sensible universe,
and which in tlie strictly philosophical
language of Scripture is called '^ the
Law of the Lord," is eminently real,
not imaginary, not factitious, not an
abstraction, not a classification or gener-
alization of particulars, nor something
that depends for its reality on human
belief or disbelief. Religion which
asserts this divine order, this tran*
scendental order, is obj^tively " the
Law of the Lord,*' which, pnKjeeding
from the eternal reason and will of Grod,
is the principle and reason of things.
The church, as the divinely constituted
organ of that law, is not an arbitrary
institution, is not an accident, is not
an afterthought, is not a superinduc-
tion upon the original phm of the
Creator, but enters integrally into that
plan, and is therefore founded in the

Independence of the CKacreA.

principle, the reason, and the consti-
tution of things, and is that in refer-
ence to which all things are created,
sustained, and goremed, and hence
our Lord is called ^the Lamb slain
from the foundation of the world.''

But this our age does not conceive.
For it the divine, the invariable, the
universal, and the eternal are simplj
abstractions or generalizations, not
real being. Its only conception of
immensity, is space unlimited — of
eternity, is time without end— of the
infinite, the undefined, and of the uni-
versal, totality or sum total. Gatholicy
in its understanding, means accepting
or ranking together as equally respect-
able the doctrines, opinions, views,
and sentiments of all sects and denom-
inations. Christian, Jewish, Mahome-
tan, and Pagan. He, in the sense of
modem philosophers, has a catholic
dispositioa who respects all convic-
tions, and has no decided conviction
of his own. Catholicity is held to be
something made up by the addition of
particulars. The age does not under-
stand that there is no catholicity with-
out unity, and therefore that catholicity
18 not predicable of the material order,
since nothing material or visible is
or can be strictly one and universal.
The church is catholic, not because
as a visible body she is universal and
includes all men and nations in her
communion ; she was as strictly catho-
lic when her visible communion was
ri»3tricted to the Blessed Virgin and
the Apostles as she is now, or would
bo if all the members of the race
were recipients of her sacraments.
She is catholic because she is the
organ of the whole spiritual order,
truth, or reality, and that order in its
own intrinsic nature is one and uni-
V'.'rsal. All truth is catholic, because
all truth is one and invariable;
all the dogmas of the church ar«
catholic, lH*cause univeisal pidnciples,
always and everywhere true. The
law of the Ltml is catholic, because
universally, always and every where
law, eiiually law for all men and ua-
tions in evenr age of the workL on

earth and is heaveiiy in time and ete^
nity. The church is catholic, be-
cause she holds under this law,asd
because God promulgates and admin-
isters it through her, because he lives
and reigns in her, and hence she is
called his kingdom^ the kingdom of
God on earth, a kingdom fulfilled and
completed in heaven. It is this order
of ideas that the age loses sight o(^
and is so generally disposed to denr.
Yet without it there were no visibk
order, and nothing would or could
exist.

The piinciple, reason, nature, or
constitution of things is in this order,
and men must conform to it or live do
true, no real life. They who recede
from it advance totrards nothing, and,
as far as possible, become nothing.
The church is independent, superior to
all human control, and persistent, un-
altered, and unalterable through all the
vicissitudes of time and place, because
the order in which she is founded
is independent and persistent. She
cannot be moved or harmed, because
she rests on the principle, truth, and
constitution of things, and is founded
neither on the individual man, the
state, nor the people, but on God him-
self, the Rock of Ages, against which
anything created must rage and beat
in vain. ^ On this rock will I build
my church, and the gates of hell shall
not prevail against it" The church is
therefore, by her own divine constitu-
tion, by the very principle and law
of her existence, indefectible. No
weapon forged against her shall pros-
per. The wicked may conspire for
her destruction, but in vain, because
they conspire to destroy reality, and
all reality is always invincible and in-
destructible. They cannot cffvLce or
overthrow her, because she is founded
in the truth and reality of things, or
whiit is the same thing, in the unalter-
able reason and will of God, in whom
all creatures have their principle —
hve, move, and have their being.

They who opiKk^ the church in the
name of humanity or human progress,
cannot succeed, because she is invind-

hkdeipendtfiice of tks Church.

Ue, and ihey would utterlj defeat them-
selres if thej coukL Thej woald de-
priye the human race of the law of
God, which makes wise the simple and
BtreDgthens the weak, aud deprive meo'
and nations of the truth and reality of
things, the very principle of all life,
and of the very means and conditions
of all progress. Man no doubt is pro-
gressive, but not in and by himself
alone. Archimedes demanded a pou
sto^ a whereon to rest his fulcrum out-
ride the earth, in order to move it, and
there is no conceivable way by which
a man can raise himself by a lever sup-
ported on himself. How is it that our
philosophers fail to mee the universal
application of the laws which they
themselves assert ? All progress is by
assimilation, by accretion, as ihat hiero-
phant of progress^ Pierre Leroux,
has amply demonstrated, and if there
b no reality outside of man or above
him, what is there for him to assimi-
late, and how is he to become more
than at any given time he already is ?
Swifl ridiculed the philosophers of La-
pata, who labored to extract sunbeams
from cucumbers, but even more ridic-
ulous are they who pretend that some* '
thing may be assimilated from nothing,
or that a thing can in and of itself make
itself more than it is. Where there is
nothing above man with which be does
or may commune, there is for him no
possibility of progress, and men and
nations can never advance beyond
what they are. This is so in the na-
ture of things, and it is only what is
ioiplied in the maxim, Ex nihilo nihil
ft.

An institution, no matter by what
sacred name called, founded by sav-
ages, embodying only what they are,
and worked by them, would have no
power to elevate them above their sav-
age state, and could only serve to per-
petuate their savagery. The age
speaks of the applications of science
to the productive arts, of the marvels
of the steam-engine, steamboats, the
locomotive, and the magnetic tele-
graph, and boasts that it renders mind
onmipotent over matter. Vain boast,

poor philosophy. We have in those
things gained no triumph over matter,
DO control over the forces of nature,
which are as independent of our reason
and will as ever they were, as the first
steamboat explosion will suffice to con-
vince the most skeptical. We have
subjected none of the forces of nature ;
we have only learned in some few in-
stances to construct our machinery so
as to be propelled by them, as did the
first man who built a mill, constructed
a boat, or spread his sails to catch the
breeze. We alter not, we control not
by our machinery the forces of nature,
and all the advantage we have obtain-
ed is in conforming to them, and in
suffering them, according to their own
laws, or laws which we have not im-
posed on them, to operate for us. The
principle is universal, catholic, and as
true in the moral or spiritual as in the
mechanical or physical world.

Man does not create, generate, or
control the great moral and spiritual
forces on winch he depends to propel
his moral and spiritual machinery.
They exist and operate independently
alike of his reason and his will, and the
advantages he derives from them are
obtained by his placing himself within
the sphere of their influence, or, to be
strictly correct, by interposing volun-
tarily no obstacle to their inflowing,
for they are always present and oper-
ative unless resisted. Withdraw him
from their influence, or induce him ob-
stinately to resist them, which he may
do, for he is a free moral agent, and he
can moke no more progress than a
sailing ship at sea in a dead calm.
These forces are divine, are embodied
in the church as her living and consti-
tutive force — are in one sense the
church herself, and hence men and na-
tions separated from her communion
and influence are thrown back on na-
ture alone, and necessarily cease to be
progressive. We may war against
this as much as we please, but we can-
not alter it, for the principle on which
it rests is a universal and indestruct-
ible law.

Individuals and nations separated

by sol I ism or heresy from the visible
wramuiiiunorike church donol become
at once abjwlutely and in all respects
u li prop ess ive, for they arc earned on
far a time by tlie monienttim she baa
given them, and besides, they are nor,
as she contimiea to exist, absolutely
beyond or outride of the sphere of her
influence, tbou^h indirect and reflected.
But from the moment of the separation
their progress begins to slacken, their
spiritual life becomes sickly and atten-
uated, and gradually they lose all that
ihey had received Pi*om the church* and
lapse inio Iielploss and unassisted na-
ture. This, which is demonstnible a
priorL is proved by the experience of
those nations that separated fi*<jm tlic
chureh in the stxteenlh century. These
nations at first retained a large por-
tion of their old Catholic culturet
and many of the habits acquired un-
der the discipline and training of the
c li u rch , B u t t h ey h a ve be e n g rad u al-
ly losing them ever since, and the more
advanced ijoiiiona of them have got
pretty clear of them, and thrown olf, as
they express it, the last rag of Popery.
Indeed this is their boast.

In throwing off the authority of the
church, they came in ndrgious matters
under the authority of the stale, or the
temporal sovereign or ruler — a purely
human authority, without competency
in spin tun Is — anil thus lost at once their
entire reUgious fi'e^dom, or Uberiy of
conscience. In Catholic nation-i the
civil authority has always, or almost
always, been pr^jne to encroiich on the
authority of the ehurch, and to attempt
to control her external discipline ur
ecclesiastical administration ; but, in
the nations that were carried avray by
the so-called reformation, the civil an-
ihorily assumed in every instjinee
complete control over the national
church, and prescribed its constitution,
its creetl, its liturgy, and its discipline.
Thia for them completely humanized
religion, and made it a department of
ilale* It is true these nations pi*o
fes.*ed to recognize the Bible as con-
taining a divine revehition, and to be
governed by it ; aud thia would have

been something, even much, had llin
not remitted its interpretation U> \lii
civil magistrate, the king, the parllv
ment, the public judgment of tlr
people, or the pri%^«te judgment of tlw
individualt which made i^ meanirjL'.a?
practically received^ vary from
to nation, and even from indiridj,, ;
in dividual*

This sacrificed, in principle, th<*
sovereignty of God and tJie entire
spiritual order, departed to a tearfal
distance fi-ora the truth and reah ty of
things* and if it retained some of tlic
precepts of the Christian law. it re-
tained them as precepts not of the law
of God but as pi-ecepts of the law of
man, enjoined, explained, and applied
by a purely human authority. In pro-
cess of time, the authority of iJie state
in religious matters was found to be
usurped, tyrannical, and oppre«^»ve,
and the thinking part of the separated
nations asserted the right of private
judgment, or of each believer to in*
ler|>ret the Holy Scriptures for him-
self. Having gone thus far, they went
stiU farther, and assert for eren-
one the right to judge for himself not
only of the meaning, but of the inspira-
tion, authenticity, and authority ot tliC
Scripiurt's, though the civil govern-
ment in none of these nations, except
the United States, not in existence at
the time of the separation, has dit*
avowed its authority in spiHtualf*
Practically, the doctrine that each in*
dividual judges for himself is now
generally adopted.

The authority of the Scriptures hm
followed the authority of the church,
and is practically, wdien not theoreti-
cttlly, rejected* It was perhaps assert-
ed by the reformers at firat for the
purpose of presenting some authori*
ty not precise W human, which no
Catholic would deny, as offset against
that of the chureh, rather than from
any deep reverence for it, or profound
conviction of it« reuUty. But, be thi9
as it mavi it counts for little now.
The author* of Essays and Reviews,
and the Anglican bishop of Natal,
take hanily less liberty with the Scrip-

iidependence of tke Ckureh,

tores tldm Lather and Oalvin did
with the church. The more advanced
thinkers, if thinkers thej are, of the
age go further still, and maintain not
odIj that a man may be a yery rejigious
man, and a true follower of Jesus
Qiristy without accepting either the au-
thority of the church or that of the Bible,
but without even believing either in
the existence of God or the immortality
of the souL Schleiermacher, the great
Berlin preacher, went thus far in his
DiscourBCs on Religion, addressed to the
Cultivated among its Despisers ; and
equally far, if not farther, in the same
direction, go the rising school or sect
called Poeitivists. Religion is reduced
to a spontaneous development — ^per-
haps I should say, to a secretion of
human nature, implying no reality
above or distinguishable from human
nature itself.

It is not pretended that all persons
in these naUons have as yet reached
this result; but as there is a certain
logic in error as well as in truth, all
are tending and must tend to it. What
is called progress of religious ideas or
religious enlightenment is not held to
consist in any accession to our stock
of known truth, in penetrating farther
mto the world of reality, and attaining
a firmer grasp of its principles, nor in
a better understanding of our moral
relations and the duties growing out of
them, but in simply casting off or get-
ting rid of so-called Popery — of every-
thing that has been retained in the
nations, and the sects into which they
divide and subdivide, furnished by the
Catholic Church in which the reformers
bad been reared, and in reducing men
and nations to the nakedness and feeble-
ness of nature. The more advanced
portion are already seen sporting in
puris naturaUbuiy heedless alike of
ahame and w interns cold. The others
are following more or less rapidly in
the same diiiection; for there is no
halting-place between Catholicity and
naked naturalism, and men must
either ascend to the one or descend to
the other. Bot those who choose to
descend can find no resting-place even

in naturalism, for nature, severed from
Catholicity, is severed from its princi-
ple, is severed from God, from the
reiUity and truth of things, and is
therefore unreal, nothing, llence the
descent is endless. Falsehood has no
bottom, is unreal, purely negative, and
can furnish no standing. Men can
stand only on the true, the real, and
that is Catholicity, the order repre-
sented in society by the church.
Those who forsake the church. Catho-
licity, God, forsake therefore the real
order, have nothing to stand on, and in
the nature of the case can only drop
into what the Scripture calls '^ the bot-
tomless pit.'*

We hear much of the ignorance,
superstition, and even of idolatry of
Catholics, nothing of which is true ;
but this much is certain, that those
who abandon the church, and succeed
in humanizing religion, making it hold
from man and subject to his control, do
as really worship gods of their fashion-
ing as did the old worshippers of gods
made of wood and stone, because their
religion is really only what they make
it, and fall into as gross an idolatry and
into as besotted and besotting a super-
stition as can be found among any
heathen people, ancient or modem.

It is easy therefore to understand
why the church sets her face so reso-
lutely a^cainst modem refoimers, lib-
erals, revolutionists, in a word, the
whole so-called movement party, pro-
fessing to labor for the diffusion of
intelligence and the promotion of
science, liberty, and human progress.
It is not science, liberty, or progress
that she opposes, but false theories
substituted for science, and the wrong
and destractive means and methods of
promoting liberty and progress adopt-
ed and insisted on by liberals and rev-
olutionists. There is only one right
way of effecting the progress they
profess to have at heart, and that is
by conforming to trath and reality, for
falsehood is impotent, and nothing can
be gained by it She opposes the
movement party, not as a movement
party, not as a party of light, liberty,

Jjid^pendence af the Church

and progress, but as a party moving
iQ the wrong direction, putting forth
unscientific theories, tbeoriea whicli
amuaci the imagination wiOiout «-^nligbt-
cning tbt! uiidets^tandiiig, whicli if they
dnzzle it is only to blind with tbeir
fUbe glitter, which embraced as trul]i
to-day, must be rejected as fubcliood
to-morrow, and wldcb in tact tend only
lo destroy liberty* and render all retU
progress impossible. As the party,
collectively or individiiaOj, neither \&
nor prelciuU to be infallible, the church,
at ihe worst, is as hkcly to be right
as they are, and the considerations
pn»seatod prove that she is right, and
that they arc wrong. There m no sci-
ence but in knowing the truth, that whicli
really is or exists, and there ia no real
pi^ogress, individual or sociaK with na-
ture alone, because nature alone has
no existence, and can exist and be-
come more than it is only by the gra-
cious, the supt-niatural assisL*ince of
God, in whom all things live, move,
and have their being.

A great cknior has been raised hy
iliL* whole tnovornent party throughout
the world agaius^t tlie encyclical of the
Hu!y Father, dated at Rome, Decem-
ber 8» 1864, and even some Catholics,
not fully aware of tl^e sense and reach
of ihe opinions censured* were at first
partially disturbed by it ; but tlie Holy
Father has given in it only a proof of
his pastoral vigilance, the fidelity of
thecbuivh toberdivine tni.^slon, and the
continuous presence in her and super-
natural assistance of the Holy Gtiost.
The errors condemned are all aimed
at the niilty and invariability, uni-
versality and persistency, of truth,
the rtiality of things, the supremacy of
the spiritual order, and tlie inde|)end-
ence and authority of tlie divine hiw,
at real science, and tlie means aud
conditions of both lilierty and pnjgres«s.
In it we see the great value of the in-
dependence of the church, — of a church
holding fram God instead of holding
from man. If the church had been hu-
man or under human control she would
never have condemned those errors,
because nearly all of thorn are popular,

and hailed as truth by tlie ug!^. Man

condemns only what man dislikes, an4
the popukr judgmt-m condemns only
what is unpopular, Ir is only the
divine that ja<lg*^s accoriling to truth,
and without beuig influenced by tlie
spirit of the age, or by what is |>opu-
lar or unpopular. If the churdi iiad
been human, she would have beea
carried away by thoae errorSi aad
proved herself the enemy instead of
the friend, the protector, luid the ben^
factor of society.

These remarks on the divine charac-
ter and independence of the church are
not inappropriate to the present timcj,
and may serve to calm, comfort, and
console Catholics amidst the natioiml
convulsions and changes which, without
Ihe reflections they suggest, mi;»ht
deeply afflict the Catholic heart. The
snccertscs of Italy and Prussia in the re-
cent unjustifiable war against Austria,
and the humiliation of the Austrian em*
pi re, the hi6t of the great powers on
which the cliurch could rely for the
proteelioa of her material inteix*^ts,
iiave apparently given over the temp«>
ral government of ibis world lo her
enemies. There is at this moment not
a single great [>ower in the world that
is otfieially Catholic, or that officially
recognizes the Catholic Church as the
church of God. The miyority of
Frenchmen are or profess to be Catho-
lies, bat the French state professes no
religion, and if it pays a salary to the
Catholic clergy, Protestant mmisters,
and Jewish rabbis, it is not lis minis-
ters of religion, but as servatits of the
state- The Russian state is schi.^ma-
tic, and ofiichilly anti-papal ; the Brit-
ish state, as a state, is Pi-otestant, and
offieially hostile to the church ; Italy
follows France; and Prussia, which
at the moment means Germany, is
officially Protestant and anti-Calholic ;
and so are Holland, Sweden, Den*
murk, :vnd Norway. Bidgium and our
own grciit Republic profess officially
no religion, but give freedom and pro-
tection to all religions not held to be
contra honot moreM, Spain and For-
togal? fio longer great powers, and

Independenee of tke Church.

most of tbe Central and South Ameri-
can states, officially profess the Catho-
lic faith, but they count for next to
nothing in the array of nations. Hel-
las and the Principalities, like Rusffia,
arc schismatic, and the rest of the
world, including the greater part of
Asia and all of Africa, is Bfahome-
tan or pagan, and of course hostile to
the church.

I have not enumerated Austria, for
what is to be her fate no one can now
say ; but as a portion of her popula-
tion belong to the Greek schismatic
church, and a larger portion still are
Protestants, the most that can be ex-
pected of her is that she will, in ragard
to religion, a:?sume the attitude of
France and Italy. There is then
really no power on which the church
c?in now rely for the support of her ex-
ternal and material interests. I will
not say that the triumph of Prussia is
the triumph of Protestantism, for that
would not be true ; but it is, at least for
the moment, the success of the party
that denounced the papal encyclical,
and would seem to be a complete
victory, perhaps a final victory, over
that system of mixed civil and ecclesi-
astical government which grew up on
the downfall of the Roman empire
aod the conversion of the barbarian
nations that seated themselves on its
ruins. It is the total and final destruc-
tion of the Christian empire founded,
with the aid of the Pope and bishops,
by Charlemagne and his nobles, and
Dot unlikely will end in the complete
severance of all official union of church
and state — alike tbe official union be-
tween the state and the heretical and
schbmatic churches, and between the
state and the Catholic Church ; so that
throughout the civilized world the
people 4irill be politically free to be of
my religion they choose, and the state
of no religion.

This result is already reached in
neariy all the nations hitherto called
Catholic nations, but not in the offici-
ally Protestant and schismatic nations ;
and for a long time to come the anti-
Caihc^ or anti-papal religions, schis-

matical, heretical, Mahometan, and*
pagan religions, will be retained as
official or state religions, with more or
less of civil tolerance for Catholics.
For the moment, the anti-papal party
appears to be victorious, and no doubt
believes that it is all over with the
Catholic Church. That party had per-
suaded itself that the church, as a
ruling body, was of imperial origin —
that the papal power had been created
by the edicts of Roman emperors, and
that it depends entirely on the civil au-
thority for its continuance Hence they
concluded that, if the church could be de-
prived of all civil support, it must falL
They said, the church depends on the
papacy, and the papacy depends on the
empire ; hence, detach the empire —
that is, the civil power — from the pa-
pacy, and the whole fabric tumbles at
once into complete ruin. It is not im-
probable that, to confound them, to
bring to naught the wisdom of the wise,
and to take the crafty in their own
craftiness, Providence has suffered them
to succeed. He has permitted them to
detach the empire, that they may see
their error.

The successful party have reckoned
without their host. They have rea-
soned from false prembes, and come
necessarily to false conclusions. The
church is, undoubtedly, essentially pa-
pal as well as episcopal, and the de-
struction of the papacy would certain-
ly be her destruction as the visible
church ; but it is false to assume that
the papacy was created by imperial
edicts and depends on the empire, for
it is an indisputable historical fact that
it existed prior to any imperial edict
in its favor, and while the empire was
as yet officially pagan, and hostile to
tlie church. Hence it does not fol-
low that detaching the empire from
the papacy will prove its destruction.
Tlie churoh was as papal in its con-
stitution when the whole force of the
« empire was turned against it, when it
sought refuge in the catacombs, as it
is now, or was in the time of Gregory
YII. or Innocent Jll^ and is as papal
in this country, where it has no civil

IndtpmdencB of th^ C^Urck.

flupport or recognition, as in Spfun, or
the Papal States 1 1 lom selves* The
very princifile, idf»a, and nature of the

church, as we have set Ihetu forrh in
asserting the ludepondence and su-
premacy of the spiritual order, of
which she is the organ, contradict in
the moat positive manner the dcfvend*
ency of the papacy on the enij>ire.

The church as a visible body has,
no doubt, temporal relations^ and
therefore temporal interests Busce[)ti-
ble of being af!V^cted by the changes
which take place in states and em-
pires, and it ia not impossible, nor im-
probable, that the recent cliang^es in
Europe may more or less deeply
afiect those interests. The papacy has
itself so judged, and has resiBted them
with aU the means placed at its dis-
posal* These changes, if carried out,
ii completed, will affeet in a very seri-
ous manner the relations of the pa-
pacy with temporal sovereiji^s, or, to
use the consecrated term, with llie em-
pire, and man}'- of its re^ilations and
provisions for the administration of
ecclesiastical affairs wilt certainly need
to be changed or modiliLd, and much
inconvenience during the transition to
the new etate of things will no doubt
be e\poriencwl. All changes from
an old established order, though in
tliemselvciS changes for the better, are
for a time attended with many incon-
Tcnicnces, The Ismelite^a escaping
from Egyptian bondage bad to suffer
wearitiess, hunger, and thirst in the
wilderness before reaching the prom-
ised land* But whatever temporal
changes or inconveniences of this
ftort the church in her external rela-
tions may have to endui'e, Uiey are
accidental, and by no means involve
her destruction, or impair her power
or integrity as the church of God, or
divinely instimted organ of the spirit-
ual order.

There is no question that the party
that reganls ttself as having triumphed
in the success of Italy and Prussia is
bitterly hostile not only to what it
calls the papal politics, but to the
Catholic Church herself, and will not

be satisfied with simply detaching \h%r
empire from her support^ but wilt
insist on its usmg all it^ power ani;
influence against her. That panji
indeed, demands ndigious liberty, hiil
religious liberty^ in its sense nV tlin
terra, is full freedom for all religiont
except the Ciitholic^ the only true,
religion* Error, they hold, is Uuimleai
w^hen reason is free, but truth they in*
Rtinctively teel is dangeiH>us to thetr
views and wishes, and must for Iheif
safety be bound baud and foot. Bui
stippose the worst ; suppose the civ
power becomes actively hostile to t
church, prohibits by law the prufe>sioil'
and practice of tlic Catholic rt4igioi
punishes Catholics with fine^ and ii
prisonraent^ tire and sword, ilie dm
geon and the stake, the church w
he no worse off than lihe was ttn
the pagan emperors, hardly wars€ ol
than she was under even the Arians.
The empire under I he Jew and the
Gentile exerted its utmost fury against,
her, and exerted it in vain- It found
her irrepressible. The more she waa
opjKJsed and persecuted, the more sba
flourished, and the blood of the mar»j
tyrs fattened the soil for a rich growt
of Catholics* Individuals and na
tions may be, as they have been, d
taehed from her communioot an*
many souls for whom Christ di
perish everlastingly, which is a fearful
loss to them, and society may sufft^r
the gains acqtiii'cd to civilization during
eighteen centuries to be losttOnd monj
and intellectual durknesB gather aneiif
for a time over the land, once enlighteiw
ed by the Sun of righteousness, fur Gwl
governs men as free moral ageutsj
not as machines or slaves; but tho
church will survive her [lersecutors^
and i-econquer the empire for God antl
his Christ, Is she not founded on the
Rock of Ages, and is it not said by him
who is tj'uth iti?elf, that the g;\ted of
hell shall not prevail against her ?

It would be imiM>ssible to subject
the church to a severer ordeal itum
she has time and again passed thrr/ugh,
and it is not likely that lier ehildreo
will be exposed lo greater ti'ials than

independence of Ae Ckmrek.

ihose to wbich they were subjected in
the fifth and sixth centuries by the
Bubyersion of the Roman empire hy
the pagan and Arian barbarians, or to
suffer lieavier calamities than ji^re
inflicted on them bj the so-cailea re«
formation in the sixteenth century.
The Protestants of to-daj cannot be
fiercer, more intolerant or fanatical
than thej were in the age of Luther
and Oalvin ; and the infidels of to-daj
cannot be more envenomed against
the church, or more bloodthirsty and
brutal, than were the infidels in the
French revolution; and all these the
church has surviTcd.

The well-being of society, its order-
ly, peaceful, and continuous progress,
requires, as the Holy See has constant-
ly maintained, the co-operation and
harmonious action of the church and
the empire or republic, but the church
has seldom found the empire ready
and willing to co-operate with her, and
the record of the struggles between her
and it fills more than a brief chapter
in ecclesiastical and civil history. In
point of fact, the church has usually
found herself embarrassed and op-
pressed by officially Catholic states,
and most of the popular prejudices
that still exist against her owe their
origin neither to her doctrines nor to
her practices, but to the action of sec-
ular governments officially Catholic
In the last century, her bitterest ene-
mies were the sovereigns of officially
Catholic states; the most generous
friends of the Holy See were states
officially heretical or schismatic, as
Russia, Great Britain, Sweden, and
Prussia. Austria is himiiliated and
Boffisring now for being in the way of the
ami-papal aggression, and every gen-
erous-hearted man sympathizes with
her noble-minded and well-dispoBed if
not able emperor, and it is no tune to
upeak of her past shortcomings ; but
this much may be said, she has seldom
been a generous supporter of the Holy
See, and sometimes has been its op-
pressor.

Governments, like individuals, sel-
dom profit by any experience but thehr

own ; yet experience has prove<l, over
and over again, that governments the
most powerful cannot, however deter-
mined on doing so, extirpate Catholi-
city by force from their dominions.
Pagan Rome, once the haughty mis-
tress of the world, tried it, made the
profession of the Christian faith pun-
ishable with death, and death in the
most frightful and excruciating forms,
but fisiiled. England, with all her pow-
er, with all her Protestant zeal, aided
by her intense national prejudices,
though she emulated the cruelties of
the Cassars and even surpassed the
Caesars in her craft and treachery, has
never been able to extinguish the Ca-
tholic faith and love of the Irish people,
the great majority of whom have never
ceased to adhere to the Catholic reli-
gion. The church thrives under per-
secution, for to suffer for Christ's sake
is a signal honor, and martyrdom is a
crown of glory. The government can
reach no farther than to the bodies and
goods of Catholics, and he who counts
it an honor to suffer, a crown to die,
for his faith, fears nothing that can be
done to those, and is mightier than
king or kaiser, parliament or congress.
The Christians, as Lactantius well
says, conquered the world not by slay-
ing but by being slain. Woe to him
who slays the Catholic for his religion,
but immortal honor and glory to him
who is slain ! Men are so constituted
that they rarely love that which costs
them nothing, no sacrifice. It is
having suffered for our native land
that hallows it in our affections, and
the more we suffer for the church, the
more and the more tenderly do we love
her. St. Hilary accuses the Arian
Constantius of being a worse enemy to
the church then Nero, Decius, or Dio-
cletian, for he seduced her prelates by
favors, instead of enabling them to ac-
quire glory in openly dying for the
faith.

The civil power can never uproot
Catholicity by slaying Catholics, or
robbing the church of her temporalities.
Impoverish the church as you will, you
cannot make her poorer than she was

in our Lord himself, who had not
where lo lay his heiid, nur ihan ghe
was in the twelve apostles when they
went fortli from that ** upper room*' in
Jerusalem to conquer the world. She
has never depended upon the gooda
of thig world as tlie means of aceora-
plishing hcT mission, and her po8,scs-
sioo3 have often been nn emhiirniss-
ment, and exposed her to the envy, cu-
pidity, and rapacity of secular princes.
If deprived by the ix? volution of the (em-
poraUtie-'j of her chiireIioa» and let\ des-
titute, 90 to apeak, of house or heme,
ahe can still offer up ** the clean obla-
tion/* as she hfis often done, in private
houses, barns* groves, calaeombs, cav-
erns in the earth, or clefts in Ibe rocka.
The church has fi-equently been de-
prived of her tera[>orj.l posaessiona and
of all temporal powert but the poor
have suffered by it more Itian she*
Slie 18 really stronger in Fninee to-
day than Bhe was in the age of Louis
XIV,, and Freueli society is, upon the
whole, Iciis corrupt than in tlie lime of
Francis I. llehgiou revives in Spain
in proportion as the chui-ch losers her
wealth. There arc no countries where
the church has been jioorer than in
Ireland and tlie United Slatcj*, and
Qone where her prosperity has been
greater. Let maUer^, then» take the
worst turn possible, Cat holies have
little to fear, the church nothing to ajH
prebend, except the injury her ene-
mies an? suro to do t!icmiclvc3, which
cannot iuil to afflict her loving heart.

Yet, whatever may be the extent of
the changes eticcted or going on in the
states and empires of Europe, I ap-
prehend no sevei'c or prolonged perae-
cution of Cathohcs. The church in
this world is and always will be tho
church mihtant, because she is not of
this world, and acts on principled not
only above but oppo:*ed to tliose on
wbii^b kings and kaisers and the men
^^ of tins world act. She therefore neces-
^^m sarily conies in conflict with them* and
^^r oould render them no service if sho
F did not* Conflicts there will be, an-

I noyanees and vexations must be ex-

I pected ; bat in all the European states

as well as our own, if we except S^
den and Denmark, UieTC is too largcl
Cathobc population to be either nuis*
sacred, exiled, or deprived of ikc rights
of gerson and property conunon to itll
citizens or subjects. The British gov-
emment baa been forced to concede*
Catholic emancipation, and allappear"
ances indicate tliat she will be forced
ere long to place Catholics in all re-
spects on a footing of perfect equality
w^ith Protectants before the dCaie*
Prussia, should she, as is possible* ab-
sorb all Germany, will have nearly lu
many Catholic as Protestant subjecu,
and thotigli she may insist on remaining
officially Protectant and anti-Catholic,
she will find it necessary lo her own
pi^ace and security to allow her Ca-
tholic subjects to enjoy liberty of reli-
gion and equal civil rights. l*he mass
of the Italian people are Calbolici,
and will remain Catholics ; and tbe*o
are not limes when even abM^hite,
inticJi less constitutional, sovr i n

afford to disi'cgard tlie righi
antl convictions of any cou&idciuble
portion of their people.

The anti-papiil part}' mny prove
strong enough to deprive the Holy
Father of his temporal sovereignty
and make Rome the capital of the
new kingdom of Italy; tlmt is un-
doubtedly laid down in the programme,
and is only a natural, a logical re
suit of Najwleon's campaign of 18-jO
against Austria^ and Napoleon bohls
that the logic of events must be suti-
mitted to. lie said in 1859 that there
were two queations to be «ettlcd» the
Italian question and the Roman que^
tion* As the former has been settled
by expelling the Austrians from Italy,
so the latter is likely to be settled by
the deprivation of the Po[>c as temporal
sovereign — the plan of settlement be-
ing evidently to secure to the xinti-
papal party all it demands. Austria
humiliated cannot int'Crpo^e in be-
half of the lempor**! sovereignty, and
is reported to have abandonc»d it ; Na-
poleon will not do it, unless compelled,
for ha has been the determined but
politic enemy of that sovereignty ever

Independence of the Okwrek

verse and so afflicting to the Catholic
heart, may prove to be the means of
emancipating the church from her
thraldom to the secular powers official-
Ij Catholic, but really anti-Catholic in
spirit, and of preparing the way for lier
to labor more effectually than ever for
the advancement of truth, the pro-
gress of civilization, and the salvation
of soub ! It is the prerogative of Grod
to overrule evil for good, and the
church, though immovable in her
foundation, inflexible in her principles,
and unchanging in her doctrines, has
a wonderful capacity of adapting her-
self to all stages of civilization, and
to all the changes in states and em-
pires that may take place ; she is con-
lined within no national boundarie.'^
and wedded to no particular form of
civil government — she can subsist and
carry on her work under Russian
autocracy or American democracy,
with the untutored savage and the
most highly cultivated European, and
is equally at her ease with the high
and the low, the learned and the un-
learned, the rich and the poor, the
bond and the free. The events which,
to all human judgment, seem adverse
often turn oat to be altogether in our
favor. ** All those things are against
me," said the patriarch Jacob, when
required to send his son Benjamin
down to Egypt, and yet the event
proved that they were all for him.
When the Jews with wicked hands
took ocr Lord and slew him, crucified
him between two thieves, they, no
doubt, thought that they had succeed-
ed, and that it was all over with him

and his work ; out what they did was
a means to the end he sought, for it
was only in dying that he could ac-
complish the woTJL he came to do.

The detachment of the empire from
the church, which has been effected for
purposes hostile to her, and with the
hope of causing her destruction, per-
haps will prove to her enemies that
she does not rest on the state, that the
state is far more in need of her than
she of it, and show in a clear and un-
mistakable light her independence of
all civil support, her inexhaustible in-
ternal resources, her sapematural en-
eigy and divine persistence. The em-
pire detached from her and abandoning
her to herself, or taming its force*
against her, will cease to incumber
her with its official help, will no longer
stand as an opaque subetance between
her and the people, intercepting her
light, and preventing them from behold-
ing her in her spiritual beauty and
splendor. The change will allay much
political hostility, remove most of the
jK>litical prejudices against her, and
permit the hearts of the people to turn
once more towards her as their true mo-
ther and best friend. It may in fact
tend to revive fistith, and prepare the na-
tions to reunite under her divine ban-
ner. Be this as it may, every Catholic
knows that she is in herself independent
of all the revolutions of states and em-
pires, of all the changes of this world,
and feels sure that she is impensbable,
and that in some way the Tictories of
her enemies will turn out to be their de-
feat, and the occasion of new triumphs
for her.

Tk$ MffHery of the Tkait^ed Bnus.

THE MYSTERY OF THE THATCHED HOUSE,

It was a clean, bright, wholesome,
thorooghlj lovable house. The first
time I saw it, I fell in love with it,
and wanted to live in it at once. It
&8cinated me. When I crossed its
threshold, I felt as if I had opened a
hock whose perusal promised enchant-
ment. I felt a passionate longing to
have been bom here, to have been
expected by the brown old watchful
walb for years before it had been mj
torn to exist in the world. I felt de-
spoiled of mj rights ; because there
was here a hoard of wealth which I
might not touch, placed just beyond
the reach of my hand. I was tan-
tilized; because the secrets of a
sweetly odorous past hung about the
shady comers, and the sunny window-
frames, and the grotesque hearth-
places ; and their breath was no more
to me than the scent of dried rose-
leaves.

It was my fault that we bought the
Thatched House. We wanted a coun-
try home ; and, hearing that this was
for sale, we drove many miles one
showery April morning to view the
place, and judge if it might suit our
neei Aunt Featherstone objected to
H from the first, and oflen boasted of
her own sagacity in doing so, afler the
Thatched House had proved itself an
incuhus — ^a dreadful Old Man of the
MoDntams, not to be shaken from our
o^s. I once was bold enough to
tell her that temper, and not sagacity,
^u the cause of her dislike that
April morning. We drove in an open
phaeton, and Aunt Featherstone got
some drops of rain on her new silk
<liB88. Consequently she was out of
hmxxr with everything^ and vehement-

VOL. IV. 6

ly pronounced her veto upon the pnr^
chase of the Thatched House.

I was a spoiled girl, however i and
I thought it hard that I might not
have my own way in this matter as in
everything else. As we drove along
a lonely road, across a wild, open
country, I had worshipped the broken,
gold-edged rain-douds, and the hills,
with their waving lines of light and
their sufl trailing shadows. I had
caught the shower in my face, and
laughed; and dried my limp curls
with my pocket-handkerchief. I was
disposed to love everything I saw, and
clapped my hands ^en we stopped
before the sad-looking old gates, with
their mossy brick pillars, and their
iron arms folded across, as if mourn-
fully forbidding inquiry into some
long hushed-up and forgotten mystery.
When we swept along the silent
avenue my heart leaped up in greedng
to the grand old trees, that rose tow-
ering freshly at every curve, spread-
ing their masses of green foliage right
and lefl, and flinging showers of dia-
mond drops to the ground whenever
the breeze lifled the tresses of a
drowsy bough, or a bird poised its
slender weight upon a twig, and then
shot off sudden into the blue.

Aunt Featherstone exclaimed
against the house the very moment
we came in sight of it. It was not
the sort of thing we wanted at all, she
said. It had not got a modem porch,
and it was all nooks and angles on the
outside. The lower windows were
too long and narrow, and the upper
ones too small, and pointing up above
the eaves in that old-fashioned, incon-
venient manner. To crovm its abeur-

The Mfsitry of the Tliatched Bbui$.

Cities, the roof was tlintcbed. No, no,
Aunt Feaiherstonc said, it #a8 neces-
sary for such old liouscs to cKiat for
the sake of pictures and roraances;
bat as for people of common sense
going to live in them^ tliat was out of
the qucf'tion.

I left lier a till outside witk ber eye-
glass levelled at the cbimneys, and
darted into tbe bouse to explore. An
old woman preceded me with a jing-
ling bunch of keys, unlocking all the
doors^ throwing open the shutters and
letting tbe long levels of auiiabine tall
over the uncarpeted floors. It was all
dcUcions, I thought; tJie long dinmg-
roora with its tall windows opening
like doors upon tbe broatl jjraveli the
circular drawing-room with its stained-
glass roofing, tbe double flights of
winding stall's, tbe roomy passages,
tbe numei-ous chambers of aJl shapes
and siaies opening one out of another,
and chasing eacb other from end to end
of the bouse ; and above all, the charm-
ing old rustic balcony, nanning round
tlie waist of tbe JjuiMing like a belt,
and C4irrj'ing one, almost quick as a
bird could fly, from one of those dear
old pointed windows under tbe eaves
down amongst tbe flower-beds below.

I said to myself in my own wiltul
way, ** T1j;s Thatched Mouse must be
my home!"' and then I set about coax-
ing Aunt Featberstono into my way of
thinking. It was not at all against
ber will that she completed the pur-
clia«^c at lasL Afterwards, however,
she liked to think it was so*

In May it was all settlfid* The
house WM3 filled with painters and
paper*b angers, and all through the
long summer months they kept on
making a mess within the wall=?,
and forbidding ua to enter and enjoy
the place in tbe full glorious luxuri-
ance of lis summer beauty. At last,
on driving there one bright evening, I
found to my joy that tbe workmen
had decamped, braving the Thatched
IIottSQ clean and fresh and gay, ready
for the reception of us, and our good^i
and ciiattels. I sprang in through one
of the open dining-room windows, and

began waltzing round the floor from
sheer delight. Pausing at last for
breath, I saw that the old woman who
took care of the place, she who btd
on my first visit opened tbe shatteic
for me and jingled ber keys, had en-
tered the room while I danced, and
was standing w*atching me (torn thi
doorway with a queer expressiOQ oo
her wrinkled face*

"Ah, ba! Nelly/* I cried triuia-
pbantly, ** what do yoa think of the
old house now ?"

Nelly shook ber gray bead, and
shot me a weird look out of her sniall
black eyes. Then she folded ber aniw
slowly, and gazed all round the room
musingly, while she said:

" Ay, Miss Lucy I wealth can do a
deal, but there's things it can*t do, AH
that tbe band of man may do ta make
this place wholesome to live in hu
been done* Dance and aing now,
pretty lady — now, wliilo you have the
heart and counige* Tbe day'll come
wlien you'd as soon think of sleepia'
all nii^ht on a tombstone as of staiidiu*
on this floor alone after sunset.^

** Good gracious, Nelly!* I cried,
** what do you mean ? Is it possible
that lb ere is anythmg — have you beard
or seen^ — **

'* I have heard and scon plenty,**
was Nelly's curt reply.

Just then, a van arriving with the
first instalment of our household goods,
tlie old woman vanished ; suid not
another word could I wring that even-
ing from her puckered lips. Her
words haunted me, and I went home
with my mirth considerably sobered;
and dreamed all night of wandering up
and down that long diaing-room in the
dark, and seeing dimly horrible ^ea
grinning at me from tbe walls. This
was only the first shadow of tbe
trouble thiit came upon us in the
Thatched House*

It came by degrees in nods and
wbiapei-s, and stories told in lowercwl
tones by the fireside at night. The
servants got possession of a rimor,
and tlie rumor reached me- I shud-
dered in silence, and cootrired for tbe

Tke 3fyitery of tha Thatched ITouu.

first few months to keep it a jealous
secret from my unsuspecting aunt
For the house was ours, and Aunt
Featherstone was timorous ; and the
ramor, very horrible, was this — ^the
Thatched House was haunted.

Haunted, it was said, by a footstep,
which every night, at a certain hour,
went down the principal corridor, dis-
tinctly audible as it passed the doors,
descended the staircase, traversed the
hall, and ceased suddenly at the din-
ing-rooni door. It was a heavy, un-
shod foot, and walked rather slowly.
AU the servants could describe it min-
utely, though none could avow that they
had poeitively heard it. New editions
of this story were constantly coming
out, and found immediate circulation.
To each of these was added some fresh
harrowing sequel, illustrative of the
manners and customs of a certaiii
ahadowy inhabitant, who was said to
bare occupied the Thatched House all
through the dark days of its past emp-
tiness and desolation, and who resented
fiercely the unwelcome advent of us
flesh-and-blood intruders. The tmdi-
tioQ of this lonely shade was as follows :
The builder and first owner of the
Thatched House was an elderly man,
wealthy, wicked, and feared. He had
marri^ a gentle young wife, whose
heart had been broken before she con-
sented to give him her band. He was
cruel to her, using her harshly, and
leaving her solitary in the lonely house
for long winter weeks and months to-
gether, till she went mad with brood-
ing over her sorrows, and died a
maniac Goaded with remorse, he
had shut up the house and fled the
country. Since then different people
had fancied the beautiful, romantic old
dwelling, and made an attempt to live
in it ; but they said that the sorrowful
lady would not yield up her right to
any new-comer. It had been her
habit, when alive, to steal down stairs
at night, when she could nut sleep for
weeping, and to walk up and down the
dining-room, wringing her hands, till
the morning dawned ; and now, though
her coffin was nailed, and her grave

green, and though her tears ought to
have been long since blown from her
eyes like rain on the wind, still the
unhappy spirit would not quit the
scene of her former wretchedness, but
paced the passage, and trod the stairs,
and traversed the hall night after night,
as of old. At the dining-room door
the step was said to pause ; and up
and down the dreary chamber a wail-
ing ghost was believed to flit, wring-
ing her hands, till the morning
dawned.

It was not till the summer had de-
parted that I learned this story.

As long as the sun shone, and the
roses bloomed, and the nightuigales
sang about the windows till midnight,
I tried hard to shut my ears to the
memory of old Nelly's hint, and took
good care not to mention it to my
aunt. If the servants looked myste-
rious, I would not see them ; if they
whispered together, it was nothing to
me. There was so short a time for
the stars to shine between the slow
darkening of the blue sky at night and
the early quickening of flowers and
birds and rosy beams at dawn, that
there was literally no space for the
accommodation of ghosts. So long
as the summer lasted, the Thatched
House was a dwelling of sunshine and
sweet odors and bright fancies for me.
It was different, however, when a
wintry sky closed in around us, when
solitary leaves dangled upon shivering
boughs, and when the winds began to
shudder at the windows all through
the long dark nights. Then I took
fear to my heart, and wished that I
had never seen the Thatched House.

Then it was that my ears became
gradually open to the dreadful mur-
murs that were rife in the house ; then
it was that I learned the story of the
weeping lady, and of her footstep on
the stairs. Of course I would not be-
lieve, though the thumping of my
heart, if I chanced to cross a landing,
even by twilight, belied the courai;e
of which I boasted. I forbade the
servants to hmt at such folly as the
existence of ghosts, and warned them

at their peril not to let a whisper of
the kind dislurh ray aunt. On the
latter point I believe 'tht^j did their
best to obey me.

Aunt Featheretonc was a dear old,
cross* good-Tjatured, crotchety, kind-
hearted lady, who was alwajjs needing
to be eoaxed. She considered herself
an exceedinglj strong-minded person,
whereaa she was in roaUty one of the
most ncTTOus women I have ever
known. I verily beheve that, if she
bail known that story of the footstep,
she would have made up her mind to
hear it dislinclly every night, and
would have been found some niorniog
stone-dead in her bed with fear. There-
fore, a^ long Aa it was possible, I kept
the dreadful 8e<*ret fTOm her ears. This
was in reality, however, a much short-
er space of time than I had imagined
it to be.

About the middle of November
Aunt Feat hers tone noticed that I was
beginning to look very pale, to lose my
appetite, and to s^tart and tremble at
the moat commonplace sounds. The
truth was that the long nights of ter-
ror which passed over my head, in my
pretty sleeping-room off tlie ghost s
corridor, were wearing out my health
and spirits, and threaten mg to throw
me into a fever; and yet neilher sight
nor sound of the supernatural bad ever
disturbed my rest — none worth record-
ing, that is; for of course, in my par-
oxysms of wakeful fear, I tancied a
thousand horrihle revelations. Night
after night I lay in agony, with my
i*ars distended for the sound of the
footstep. Morning after morning I
awakened, weary and jaded, after a
short, unsatisfying sleep, and rvsolved
tluit I would confess to my aunt, and
implore her to ily from the place at
once. But, when seated at the break-
fast-table, my heart invariably failed
me. I accounted, by the mention of a
headache, for my pale cheeks, and
kept my secret

Some weeks passed, and then I in
my turn began to observe that Aunt
Fealherstone had grown exceedingly
dull in gpiriti. ^ Can any one have

told her the secret of the
House ?'* waj the question I quickly
asked myself. But the servants de-
nied having broken their promiiBie ; and
I had reason to think that there had
been of hite much less gosfiip on thf
subject than formerly* I w«» afmid
to risk questioning the dear old Iftdy,
and sol could only hope and surmise
But I was dull, and Aunt Fcatherstone
was dull, and the Tliatched House wai
dreary. Things went on in tliis waj
for some time, and at last a drt*iidlui
night arrived. I had been for a long
walk during the day; and had gone
to bed rather earlier than usual, and
fulh n asleep quickly* For aboQt two
hour^ 1 slept, and then I was roused
suddenly by a slight sound, like the
creaking of a board, just outside my
door. With the instinct of fear 1
started up, and listener! intently. A
watery moon was Bhining into m
room, revealing the pretty blue-ani
white furniture, the pale statnel
and the various HUle dainty umam
with which 1 had heen pleased to sur-
round myself in this my chosen sanc-
tuary • I sat up shuddering and lis-
tened. I pressed my liands tightly
over my heart, to try and keep its
throbbing from killing roe ; for di*-
tiuelly, in the merciless stilhiess of tke
winter night, I heard the tread of a
stealthy footstep on the passage oot-
side my room. Along the corridor it
crept, down the staircase it went, and
was lo^t in the hall below,

I shall never forget the anguish of
fear in which I passed the remainder
of that wretched night. Wiiile cower-
ing into my pillow* I made up my
mind to leave the Thatched House us
soon as the morning broke, and never
to enter it again, I had heard
people whose hair liuJ grown gray
a single night, of grief or te
When I glanced in the lookuig-glass
at dawn, I almost expected to see A
white head upon my own shoulders.

During thfi next day I, as usual,
failed of counige to sf>eak to my aunt
I desired one of the maids to sleep on
the couch in my room^ keeping tbii

fver

Th Ifyi k r f of tke Tkaiehed Bm9$.

Afnmgffnent a secret The foUowing
night I feh some Httle comfort horn
the presence of a second person near
me ; but the girl soon fell asleep. Lying
awaJce m feariiil expectation, I was
visited by a repetition of the previous
night's horror. I heard the footstep a
seoood time.

I suflered secretly in this way for
aboat a week. I had become so pale
and nervous, that I was only 'like a
shadow of my former self. Time
hung wretchedly upon my hands. I
only prised the day inasmuch as it was
a respite fixym the night ; the appear-
ance of twilight coming on at evening,
invariably threw me into an ague-fit
of shivering. I trembled at a shadow ;
I screamed at a sudden noise. My
aunt groaned over me, and sent for
the dcMtor.

I said to him, ^ Doctor, I am only a
little moped. I have got a bright idea
for curing myself. You must prescribe
me a sd^lfellow.*^

Hereupon Aunt Featherstone began
to ride ot on her old hobby about the
kmeliness, the unhealthiness and to-
tal objectionableness of the Thatched
House, bewailing her own weakness
in having allowd herself to be forced
into baying it. She never mentioned
the word " haunted," though I after-
ward knew that at the very time, and
for some weeks previously, she had
been in full possession of the story of
the nightly footstep. The doctor re-
commended me a complete change of
scene ; but instead of taking advan-
tage of this, I asked for a companion
at the Thatched House.

The prescription I had begged for
was written in the shape of a note to
Ada Rivers, imploring her to come to
me at once. '* Do come now,' I wrote ;
• I have a mystery for you to explore.
I will tell you about it when we meet"
Having said so much, I knew that I
sbould not be disappointed.

Ada Rivers was a tall, robust girl,
with the whitest teeth, the purest com-
plexion, and the clearest laugh I have
ever met with in the world. To be
' her made one fed healthier both

in body and mind. She was one of
those fively, fearless people who lore
to meet a morbid horror face to face,
and put it to rout. When I wrote to
her, ^ Do come, for I am sick," I was
pretty sure she would obey the sum-
mons ; but when I added, ** I have a
mystery for you to explore," I was
convinced of her compliance beyond
the possibility of a doubt.

It wanted just one fortnight of
Christmas Day when Ada arrived at
the Thatched House. For some- little
time beforehand, I had busied myself
so pleasantly in making preparations,
that I had almost forgotten the weep-
ing lady, and had not heard the foot-
step for two nights. And when, on
the first evening of her arrival, Ada
stepped into the haunted dining-room
in her trim flowing robe of crimson
cashmere, with her dark hair bound
closely round her comely head, and
her bright eyes clear with that frank
unwavering light of theirs, I felt as if
her wholesome presence had banished
dread at once, and that ghosts could
surely never harbor in the same house
with her free step and genial laugh.

"What is the matter wjth you?"
said Ada, putting her hanas on my
shoulders, and looking in my face.
" You look like a changeling, you lit-
tle white thing I When shall I get
leave to explore your mystery ?"

" To-night," I whispered, and, look-
ing round me quickly, shuddered.
We were standing on the hearth be-
fore the blazing fire, on the very spot
where that awful footstep would pass
and repass through the long, dark, un-
happy hours afler our lights had been
extinguished, and our heads, laid upon
our pillows.

Ada laughed at me and called me a
little goose ; but I could see that she
was wild with curiosity, and eager for
bedtime to arrive. I had arranged
that we should both occupy my room,
in order that, if there was anything to
be heard, Ada might hear it. " And
now what is all Uiis that I have to
learn ? * said she, aHer our door had
been fastened for the night, and we

sat looking at one another with our
drefteing-gowns upon our shoiildei*s.

Aa I bad expected, a long ringin**
laugh greeted the recitul of my doleful
tale. ** My dear Lucy !'' cried Ada,
** my poor sick little raopcd Lucy, you
Burely don't mean to say tliat you be-
lieve in such vulgar things as gliosis ?'

" But I cjinnothelp it," 1 said. ** I
have heard the footj^tep no less than
seven tiro en, and the proof of it ia
that I am ill. If you were to sleep
alone in this room every night for a
montli, you would get sick loo/*

*^ Not a bit of it !" said Ada, stout-
ly ; and she sprang up and walked
about the chamber, "To think of
getting discontented with thi^ pretty
room, this exquisite little nei;t I No,
I engnge to sleep here every night for
a mouth — ^alone, if you please — and
at the end of that time, 1 Bhali not
only l>e still in iK^rfect health, my un-
romantie self, tut I promise to have
cured you, you little, absurd, imagina-
tive tiling I And no;v let us get to bed
without another word on the subject.
•Talking it o er,' in cases of this
kind, always does a vast amouot of
mischief/*

Ada always meant wbat she 8aid,
In half an hour we were both in bed,
without a further word being s^mken
oil the matter. So strengthened and
reassured was I by her strong, happy
presence that, wearied out by the ex-
citement of the day, I was quickly
last asleep* It was early next morn-
ing when I wakened again, and the
red, frosty sun was rising above the
trees. When I opened my eyes, the
finst object they met was Ada, sitting
in the window, with her forehead
ig^in&t the pane, and her hands locked
in her lap. She was very pile, and
ber brows were knit in perplexed
thought. I had never seen her look
so strangely before.

A swift thought struck me. I start-
ed up, and cried, "O Ada! forgive
mo for going to sleep so soon. / know
you have heard Vf,"

Hhe unknit her browj, rose from her
teat, and came and sat down on the

bed beside me. " I cunnot deny it J
she said gravely ; '* / hcwe heard
Now tell me, Lucy, does yotir at
know at^ythtng of all thb ? *

*♦ I am not sure," I said ; ^ I
be, because I am afraid to ask her.
rather think that she has heard some
of the filories, and is anxiously trying
to hide tbem from me, little thinking
of what I have suffered here. Si
has been very dull lately, and repin
constantly about the ptjrchase of thi'
bouse.**

** ATeiy* said Ada, « we most
her nothing till we have j^tfted th
matter to the bottom/'

** Why, wimt are you going to do ?'
I naked* beginning to tremble.

"Nothing very dreadiiil, littki.
coward !*' she said, l.iughing ; *' on!
to follow the ghost if it passes oi
door to-night; I want to see wf
stuff it is made of» If it be a gcni
ine spirit, it is time the TUateh
House were vacated for ita more coi
plete accommodation. If it l)e flc;
and blood, it is time the trick we
found out.**

I giufcd at Ada with feelings of min
gled reverence and adrairatlon. It
was iu vain that I tried to dissuade h
from her wild purpose. She bade
hold ray tongue, get up and dn
and think no more about ghosts till bedr^
time. I tried to be obedient ; and all
that day wo kept e^trict silence on the
dreadful snhject, while our tongues ai
hands and (seemingly) our heads we
kept busily occupied in helping to cai
ry out Aunt Fcatherstone's thousand
and -one pleasant arrangements for the
coming Cbiistmas festivities.

During the morning, it happenei
lliaL I ol\en caught Ada with her ey<
fixed keenly on Aunt Feathers tono*i
face, especially when once or t%vice thi
dear old lady sighed profoundly, am
the shadow of an unaccountable cloi
.settled down upon her troubled browi
Ada pondered deeply in the interval
of our convers.1t ion, though her mei^
ry comment atid opt suggestioa were
always ready a^* usual when occasion
seemed to call for them. I noticed

DflM

all^

ha ]

The Mystery of the Thaiehed Bouse.

also that she made excases to explore
roomB and passages, and found means
to observe and exchange words with
the servants. Ada's bright eyes were
iinasoallj wide open that daj. For
me, I hung about her like a mute, and
dreaded the coming of the night.

Bedtime arrived too quickly; and
when we were shut in together in our
room, I implored Ada earnestly to give
up the w'dd idea she had spoken of in
the morning, and to lock fast the door,
and let us try to go to sleep. Such
praying, however, was useless. Ada
bad resolved upon a certain thing to
do, and this being the case, Ada was
the girl to do it.

We said our prayers, we set the
door ajar, we extinguished our light,
and we went to bed. An hour we lay
awake, and heard nothing to alarm us.
Another silent hour went past, and still
the sleeping house was undisturbed.
I had begun to hope that the night was
going to pass by without accident, and
had jost commenced to doze a little
and to wander into a confused dream,
when a sudden squeezing of my hand,
which lay in Ada's, startled me quick-
ly into consciousness.

I opened my eyes ; Ada was sitting
erect in the bed, with her face set for-
ward, listening, and her eyes fastened
on the door. Half smothered with
fear, I raised myself upon ray elbow
and listened too. Yes, O horror 1
there it was — the soft, heavy, unshod
footstep going down the corridor out-
side the door. It paused at the top of
the staircase, and began slowly de-
scending to the bottom. **Ada!" I
whispered, with a gasp. Her band was
damp with fear, and my face was
drenched in a cold dew. '< In Grod's
name V she sighed, with a long-drawn
breath ; and then she crept softly from
tbe bed, threw on her dressing-gown,
aod went swiftly away out of the al-
ready open door.

What I suffered in the next few
minutes I could never describe, if I
spent the remainder of my life in en-
deavoring to do so. I remember an
intervaJ of stupid horror; while lean-

ing on my elbow m the bed, I gazed
with a fearful, fascinated stare at the
half-open door beside me. Then,
through the silence of the night there
came a cry.

It seemed to come struggling np
through the flooring from the dining-
room underneath. It sounded wild,
suppressed, smothered, and was
quickly hushed away into stillness
again ; but a horrible stillness, broken
by fitful, confused murmurs. Unable
to endure the suspense any longer, I
spi*ang out of bed, rushed down thd
stairs, and found myself standing in
the gray darkness of the winter's night,
with rattling teeth, at the door of the
haunted dining-room.

'* Ada ! Ada I ' I sobbed out, in my
shivering terror, and thrust my hand
against the heavy panel The door
opened with me, I staggered in, and

saw a stout white figure sitting

bolt upright in an arm-chair, and Ada
standing quivering in convulsions of
laughter by its side. I fell forward on
the fioor ; but before I fainted quite, I
heard a merry voice ringing through
the darkness,

" O Lucy 1 your Aunt Featherstone
is tbe ghost !**

When I recovered my senses, I was
lying in bed, with Ada and my aunt
both watching by my side. The poor
dear old lady had so brooded over the
ghost-stories of the house, and so unself-
ishly denied herself the relief of talk-
ing them over with me, that, pressing
heavily on her thoughts, they had un-
settled her mind in sleep. Constantly
ruminating on the terror of that ghost-
ly walk, she had unconsciously risen
night after night, and most cleverly
accomplished it herself. Comparing
dates, I found that she had learned the
story of the spirit only a few days be-
fore the night on which I had first been
terrified by the footstep.

The news of Aunt Featherstone's
escapade fiew quickly through the
house. It caused so many laughs,
that the genuine ghosts soon fell into
ill repute. The legend of the weeping
lady*s rambles became divested of its

72 Tke JBe$yrreeiiim.

dignity, and grew therefore to be quite gratefxil to Ada for that good service

hfumless. Ada and I laughed over which she rendered me; and as for

our adventure every night during the Aunt Featherstone, I must own that

rest of her stay, and entered upon our she never again said one word

Christmas festivities with right good- in disparagement of the Thatched

wilL I have never forgotten to be House.

From Uio German.

THE RESURRECTION.

Rise ? Yes, with the myriads of the just,
Afler short sleep, my dust!
Life of immortiil fire
Thine from the Ahnighty Sire I
Alleluia I

Sown, to upepring, O joy ! iu richer bloom,
The Lord of harvest's tomb
Gives forth his sheaves within—
Us, even us, who died in him I
Alleluia 1

O victory! O dayspring*8 kindling ray!
God's everlasting day 1
In the grave's solemn night.
Slumbering, soon shall thy light

Wake me to sight.

As if of visionary dream the end —
With Jesus to ascend
Through joy's celestial door —
Pilgrims of earth no more —

Our sorrows o'er.

My Saviour, to the Holiest leading on;
That we may at the throne,
In sanctuary free.
Worship eternally!

Alleluia 1

F. W. P.

A uir eg i$ F%rt.

AUBREY DE VERE.*

Oct of the greater breadth and
catholicity, so to speak, of oar present
literary taste, it results that one class
of poets is arising among as which
has been very^ rare before our day :
those in whom the soul is the pre-
dominant force — men who care noth-
ing for popularity, and barely enough
for recognition by their peers to make
them publish at all — men by nature
high-strung and shy, yet tranquil, bal-
ai^edy and strong ; who write, in short,
from the spiritual side of things. These
could not, in ordinary times, hope for a
wide, general favor, and they sailed
the nautiluses of literature ; dropping
from the surface of themselves, equal-
ly native to the cooler, deeper waters
bebw. But so strong have been the
gales of awakening love of reading,
that even these stranger ships, not
bound for the ports of popularity, find
"wind enough to waft Uiem wherever
refinement and scholarship care to
deal in their rare and choice cargoes.
An extreme of this class is Aubrey
de Yere. Naturally not a poet of the
people, and still further isolated by
holding and eloquently celebrating a
faith which incurs certain ostracism
fiom the literature of sectarian bigotry,
^ is almost unknown in America.
Fresh from his works, we are almost
^ a loss to understand how, in a coun-
tij not only of so many Cathulic
leaders, but where there is so much
pretension to literary taste, he can be
>Qch a stranger. All the usual and
more accessible sources are so bar-

* Bmnh after PtoMn^ne, and other Poemi. Lon-
te,]848.
Poans. hj Aubrey d« Vere. London, 1S5S.
Tbe 8mm, Infalkll, and other Poems. London,

Mflj Oteolib ^Mew York: Uwrenoe Kehoe, 186e.

ren of his biography that we can-
not trust ourselves to attempt any
sketch of his life. From materials so
meagre and of such indifferent authen-
ticity, nothing satisfactory — nothing
vivified — can be gathered ; and biogra-
phy that fails in personality is a body
without a souL So we content our-
selves with the poet as we see him in
his works.

In attempting an analysis of the
qualities displayed in these volumes,
we find, to begin with, none of the
inequalities of those writers who be-
gin quite young, and whose works go
comet-like through after years, the
youthful nebulosity tailing off from
the matnrer nucleus, in a long string
of promising but not much perform-
ing versiclesi There is none of the
crudeness of journey work, but every-
where thought and gravity. The
latter quality indeed is conspicuous.
De Vere can be too sarcastic for us
to deny him wit, but humor seems
to be unknown to him. There is not
the ghost of a joke in all his pages.
We call this remarkable, because he
treats of so very many things. In
Thomson's Seasons (even waiving
Thomson's nationality) or Paradise
Lost-^in any one poem — we may not
expect humor; but in a miscellany,
where every side of a man's mind usufd-
ly displays itself, it seems odd not to
find a trace of sense of the ludicrous.
Certainly there is variety enough for
it. The range of subjects is perhaps
not very great, but the individual
poems exhibit almost every shade of
style, beginning on the hither side of
quamtness and bringing up on the
boundaries of the colloquial. An artifi-
cial style like that of the Idyls of the

Auiny de Ven.

• King, or the EmcrsoDian dial^t (" rir-
tute ac vitiis sapientia crescat**), our
author never attempts ; his thoughts,
as a rule, seem to choose their own
channel. He is willing enough to spend
pains in making a thought clear, but
such grave, antique costuming of ideas
he takes no time for. The manner is
always kept well in subordination to
the matter of what he has to saj.

There is a strange versatilitv in
these books in unconsciously adopting
peculiarities of other writers. The
author himself, in his notes, acknow-
ledged this, or rather detects himself
aAer the fact, in a few instances ; but
though acute so far, he does not see
halfl More honest and unconscious
imitation there never was, and just as
the impression of the archetype rarely
rose to a fact of consciousness, so
the consequent resemblance seldom
amounts to a traceable parallelism.
There is no reproduction of passages,
but of characteristics. A shade, a
turn of phrase, a suggestion, a soup-
f'jn, as we read, recalls at once
some great writer. The sonnets are
full of subtle odors and flavore of
Shakespeare, evanescent, intangible,
and charming. There are also what
the French would call ** coincidences
of style " with Coleridge, and often,
especially in the May CaroK with
Tennyson. Both are easily accounted
for; the one by kindred tendencies to
philosophy, the other by the strong like-
ness in plan to In Memoriam. But
perhaps the most singular of all oc-
curs in the very forcible poem called
The Bard EthcU, which bears a
curious resemblance to the poet of all
poets the very opposite of De Vere —
Robert Browning. There is nothing
at all like this poem in all our author s
works. It stands as saliently alone
as a meteoric boulder in a meadow.
The subject is an Irish bard, a relic
of the bardic days, but a zealous con-
vert to a Cliristianity of his own,
tinged with a wild, ineradicable bar-
barism, whose ontcroppings make the
interest of the character. There is
all Browning's sharp outline sketching.

all his power of handling contrtdJo-
tions of character, yet none of the
topsy-turvy words and sentences with-
out which the Great Inversionist
would not be himself; — ^in short, it
is Browning with the constitutioiud
gnarl in the grain left ouL

Another— a closer parallelism than
usual — ^we find in The Year of Sor-
row :

** The wMTcr wore till wXl was dark.
And long ert monking bent aad boved
Above his work viUi fingers stark.
And made, nor knev he made, a shroud.**

The terrible parallel passage in the
Song of the Shirt is too familiar to
need more than an allusion.

Tet through all these ooincidenoes
runs an abundant individuality that
proves De Vere to be anything but a
wilful or even permissive plagiarist.
He is, in simple truth, a great reader,
with a mind in such true tune with all
things high and refined, that it re-
sponds as the accordant string of some
delicate instrument echoes a musical
note. There needs no better test than
this, that mere imitators invariably
copy faults, while Mr. De Vere al-
ways reproduces excellences.

In pomt of language, our author in-
herits an Irishman's ftiU measure of
vocabulary. Through a most varied
series of metres, his verse is full of
ease, fluency, and grace. In rhythm
he rises to the rank of an artist. He
has passed the first degree — that bac-
calaureateship of verse-making whose
diploma is perfect smoothness and mel-
ody ; where Tom Moore to(^ a double
first, and beyond which so few ever
attain. He is one of the maestri^ like
Tennyson and Swinburne, who know
the uses of a discord, and can handle
diminished sevenths. His lines are
full of subtle shadings, and curious sub-
felicities of diction, that not every one
feels, and few save the devotee to
metre (such as we own ourselves to
b«') pause to analyze and admire.
His taste, too. is fastidiously unerring ;
there is never a swerve beyond the
cobweb boundaries of the line of beau-
ty. Sometimes he misses Uie exact

Aitirmf de Vare.

w<»d be wantB, but he never halts for
want of a good one. The only defi-
ciencj arises (rom his temperament.
Where spirit demands to be heard in
M>and as felt in sense, he uniformly
fails. He cannot often make his lines
bound and ring like Moore's. In the
fiice of the fiery episodes of Irish his-
tory which he deals with in InisFail, he
is too often like one of his own bards
on a modem battle-field.

So much for the mere style ; the
man himself remidns. Pre-eminently
he is a philosopher — too much of one
to be a great poet. Not that any man
can be a poet at all without being also
a philosopher. Only his philosophy
should be to his poetry as a woman's
brain to her heartr— a suggesting, sub-
oroinate element — the ** refused" wing
of his progress. With him it is just
the reverse. Philosophy is the primary
fact of his inner life, out of which blos-
som incidentally his poetry and his
patriotism, but whose legitimate and
beautiful fruit is his religion. The
consequence is, everything is too much
a development of high principle, in-
stead of an impube of deep feeling.
He is too righty too reasonable, too
frell-considered. He has not enough
abandon. This one, but final and fatal
fidult to the highest poetical success,
ramifies curiously through everything
he writes. The first result is occasion-
ally too much abstractness. There are
fetters of thought poetry caimot be
graceful in. Her vocation is to lead
us among the fostered fiowers and
whispering groves of the beautiful
land, not to go botanizing far up the
ooH heights, among the snow-growths,
whose classification is caviare to the
g«neraL There let science climb with
her gctvans. On rare occasions, in-
deed, the poet may tellingly deal with .
the naked truths of nature, but it de-
mands the inspiration of a Lysimachus
aod the glorious contours of a Phryne.
Teimyson, in his In Memoriam, has
touched with the rarest felicity on the
most pregnant problems of natural
divinity, without even rippling the
smoothnesB of his verse ; De Yerc has

done tlie same, with excellent suecess,
in his Aiay Carols ; but he tries too
oHen not to fail oftener than we could
wish. It must be owned an honorable
failure ; not of strength, but of grace.
His lines lift the weight they grapple
with, but he does not interest us in the
labor. At the risk of trespassing on
time-honored critical demesnes, we
difier with that tacit consensus doctth-
rum which suffers sonnets, and some
other things, to be as abstract as the
author pleases.

Another effect of this over-philoso-
phic temperament, while equally hurt-
ful to his popularity, greatly endears
him to the few. It is the pure and
elevated tone of all he writes. In
this quality he is eminent. He is a
mountaineer on the steeps of Parnas-
sus, whose game by instinct never flies
to the plains. He lit\s ordinary sub-
jects into a seeming of unreality.
Things seem to lose outline and glide
away from the grasp ; as clouds that
have form enough when seen from
the earth, are shapeless vapor to the
aeronaut among them. So, again, the
interest fails id comparison with a
lower grade of thought. People will
buy very indifferent sketches, but care
very little for the most accurate bird's-
eye view. There is a singular charm in
this unlabored, if not unconscious lofti-
ness ; but the mass of readers weary,
as they do of a lecture on astronomy,
from over-tension of unused faculties.
What is the difference to a reader
whether an author passes beyond his
reach by going apart into abstruseness
or soaring away into idealism ?

We have shown before how the ver-
sification suffers. Everywhere reason
clogs the wings of rhyme. Our au-
thor is for ever putting his Pegasus in
harness to the car of some truth or
other. A warm human sympathizer,
a deep and poetical worshipper, a
burning and noble protestant against
the woes and wrongs of Ireland, with
scholarship, reading, talent, every aus-
picious omen, he has never fulfilled,
and may never fulfil, the promise that
is in liim. His reason is ^or ever

A*Ares dt Vert.

making clear to his better angels of
fancy and feeling the exact boundaries
of just thouirlitj which they may not
overstep* It robs hia pbilanthropy
of human tenderness, his religion of
anlor, hia patriotism of enthusiasm.
His 19 the calm, trained strength of
perfect mental soundness ; the fiery
contractile thrills, that make of the
impassioned man a ^iant for one grand
effort, he seems to do battle with and
sky before they can grow into acts.
What a combinaliou of qualities goes
to the making of a great poet!

The [loems now before us range
tbemselveii mainly into three grand
classes^ — sonneLs, religions poems, and
lyrics, etc., on Ireland. There are some
noteworthy exceptions, however — as,
for example, the excellent poem:? on
Shelley and Coleridge, whom he thor-
oufl^hly appreciates, the widely known
stanziis called The ^nliun Harp, and
the splcnvlid linc^ on Delphi — one of
his very be.st efforts. But our pur-
pose lies rather with the poet, as re-
vealed through his works, than with
the poems themselves. So we must
leave a wide, unnoted tnargin of mis-
cellaneous pieces, where any reader
whom we may succeed in interesting
in the beauties of our aalhor may
range unprejudiced by our expres-
sionft of opinion, and conlioe ourselve-s
to our true subject — ^the poet himself^
viewed successively in the three groal
pathways he has opened for himself.
We only pause to advise our reader
tliat we make no pretensions to gather-
iog the harvest, but leave golden
Bwathea behind instead of ordinary
gleaning.

Sonnets seem to require a peculiar
talent. Almost all oar best men liave
written them, and almost ail badly,
\vhiie the small newspaper and period-
ical crat> strand on them daily* Only
our deepegt and most refined thinkers
have written really good ones, and to
succeed in them at all, is to join a
very limited coterie^ where Shakes-
peare and Milton have but few com-
peers. When, then, w© say that
De Vere is the author of some of th©

be^t we have in onr litemtnrr^ m

justify high ex[»ec<ation.

He is one of the most valuminooi
of sonnet writers* There are in the
book^ between one hundred and fid
and two hundred. It seems to b<*
iavorite outlet for those bnefi
choicer reflections Uial lose their"
cbann by being amplified for the ?ul-
gar comprehension,

*\ , ^ , Aa orient «ts«oc«i, dtffos*
Oft »U ti>« lll>cr»J ii\n of low Ciivliific
Woa Uielr Hch rutnliiesa fkr to HMid I
To wrhoia the ro«c ia bai m thomj veed ;**

but which, after all, are the trifies that
make up the iuner life of a soul, and
for whose waste, as our author htS23clf

says,

^' Nature^ Ir11lf«t irltb^ ttol lorvd^
WIU b« U Uii *¥eog«4.''

Ii may well be imagined that tins is a
path peculiarly adapted to our au-
ihor's contemplative yet versatile mi ad
He is singu arly fitted for this style
of composition, which does not dea
the leiist particle of that kind
spirit and impulsive animation
which he is wanting; and accof
ingly ho has written a number of
nets which will, we think, comp
with the Yevy best for eloquence
just thought. Walter Savage r<#and
— non sordidus auctor — deliberate
pronounced tlie one on Sunrise
tiaest in the language.

Two others, l)y which he is proba

best known to American readers,

pcared in the Atlantic Monthly, one
written March, 18C0, tlie other^ June
12, 18G1, addressed to Charles Eliot
Norton, the editor of iho North Aineri-
can lie view. Both relate to the na*
tional struggle, and indicate a some-
what lively interest in our affairs^ but
otherwise are not remarkable,
better than these we find the foUowii
It 18 a good sample besides of 1
author^* general style :

**si.t'

C-r.
B..1..
S^.^
U

, And mldolfihCt iofUMt gl
> of fiut d<vU»lDK yotOS

Ml 4* «rhhed'ft>r tomb T
k'h— tho uiouaxx:!] »|n
ty your prjtcr • xiiktm

Antl la (ijc m^<tini buUowtf of blte«r«
Murmur, oh t ercr uturmur : * Connff^ O

Aubreif de Vere.

TlrglBBl rllei hare I obMired fall long,
i>* And all obMnrmnee worthy of a bride.

Then wbtrcforc, Doath, dott thou to mo thli wrong,
So long estranged to linger from my aide?
Am I not thtne ? Oh I breathe upon my eyes
A gentle aniwer, Death, from thine eiyslan skies !'*

It is no easy thing to be publicly
and yet gracefully sad. Do not we

} mentally associate an idea of weak-

\ ness or effeminacy with mehincholic

writings? Yet here is — we feel it at

'« once— the true sadness we all respect :

the unaffected weariness which does
not cry out its grief, but sighs because
it suffers and is strong.

It is not often that De Vere leaves
the lofty pinnacles of thought or the
pleasant hills of fancy for sterner

[ fields, but here for once he swoops

from his eyrie into the following scath-
ing lines* They are the last of five
Ti-ry spirited sonnets on Colonization,
each of which is worth quoting, did

«. but our space permit :

1^ " England, roagnanlmons art thou in name ;

M«gnanhno«u In nature ooee thou vert ;

Rut that which ofttimes lags behind desert,
1^ And crowns the de>id, as oft survives it— fame.

can she who«« hand a merchant's pen makes tame,
' - i ih *neer of nameless scribe — can she whose heart

. . In eamp or senate still Is at the mart,

A nstlon*s toila a nation's honors claim f

Thy shield of old torn Poland twice and thrice
>._• Invoked ; thy help as vainly Ireland asks,

r Pointing with stark, lean linger from the crest

^ ' Of western cliffs plagueHitrlcken, from the West—

; Gray-haired though young. When heat U sucked

C from Ice,

i.. ^ Then shall a firm discharge a national task."

This speaks for itself. It sums up
the faults of the English nation better
in a dozen lines than a congress of
vaporers about British tyranny or
essayists on perfide Albion could do
in a month of mou things. There is
not a weak line or phrase in it, or one
that is not auxiliary to the general
effect intended. This, in short, is what
ve call masterly.

There are a score of other sonnets
that wo would wish to quote in il-
huiratlon of the refined thought and
elegant delicacy of diction which
characterize them all; but we are con-
strained to content ourselves with one
also noticed by Landor for its singular
Felicity and beauty. It is from his
first book, page 268 :

"^riowcri I would bring. If flosrert could make tbee
fldrer.

I, if Iha BUM wtia dear to tbae ;

iFor lorlng tbaie would make thee lore the bearer.)
(ut sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loreUest flowers would but conceal the wearer :
A rose I marked, and might have plucked ; but she
Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alss ! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee.
What offerings bring, wlmt treasures lay before

thee ;
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,
ind all old poets and old books adore thee ;
And love to thee is naught ; from paJi»ionate mood
Secured by Joy*s complacent plenitude ?*'

This poem is remarkable to us as
containing one of the few recognitions
we have ever seen of that beauty
which rises above the province of
passion, and strikes a dim awe into
admiration. They are not many who
can feel it, and few, indeed, who have
expressed it. The same thought
occurs in another passage referred to
by Landor : ^

" Blen loveil ; but hope they deemed to be
A sweet impossibility."

But we have a further reason for pre-
ferring this to several equally fine. It
is to note what may be another of De
Verc's unconscious adaptations. The
well-knuwn scholar, Henry of Hunting-
ton, addressed to Queen Adellcia of
Louvaine some lines which hinge upon
the very same turn of thought. The
real excellence of the verses emboldens
us to subjoin a few of them, that the
reader may observe the resemblance :

" Anglorum regina, tuos, Adelisa, decores
I|>!ia rcferre parans Muita stiipore rigrt.

Quid dladeraa tibi, pulchcrrima ? quid tibi gemma ?
Pallet gemma tibi, nee dladema nltet.

Ornaraenta c:ive ; noc <iuicquam luminis inde
Accipis ; ilia nitcnt lumine clara tuu . ..."

We are not sure but the mediaeval
poet, having no further idea beyond
mere laudation, has rather the better
of the complimenting. But tiien praise
to a queen would be flattery to a
subject.

Without trying the rather dubious
policy of attempting to prove our taste,
we think that upon these sonnets alone
we could rest De Vere's claim to be
a first-class sonnet writer. If it were
not a received impossibihty, we should
be tempted to call him the equal in
this respect of Shakespeare. Of course
we admit the impossibility.

Leaving the sonnets, we come to a
fieur more interesting portion of the

^
^

works before us — the relio^ious poera<^.
A« a Chnstian, our author is indeed
admirable. Hfi evinces not only a
deep, strong, real, and realizing faith,
but mudi fruitful thought over the
meot^il details, so to epeak, and a
wonderful comprehension of the theory,
theology, and mysteries of the church.

More properly than religious poerai*,
we should epeak of poeais on religion ;
for the man's whole life is a religious
poem* Scarcely a scrap is not full of
hid deep Catholicity. Of verses speci-
ally and professedly devotional, these
volumes contain few, besides the May
Carols, save some Poems on Sacred
Suhjectp, which we (ind below the au-
thor's average. Some of them c^ny
abstri^ctne^s to the rcrge of vagary*
What color of pretence, for uistiincc,
lias a man for printing (if he must
write it), and deliberately inviting the
public to read, a copy of verses on the
Unity of Abstract Truth ? We inter-
nally know we ai^ not Woi\ls worths,
but it is very unpleasant to have it
made fio plaici. in shrewd auticipa-
tioo of any mental queries, we utterly
decline saying whether we have rejid
the lines or not. We cannot determine
which would be the more to our credit.

But we pass by unnumbered beau-
tics to reach our author*s best and most
memorable work — -May Carols, Thts
is noble alike in design, tone, and exe-
cution. The plan Is simple — to pro-
duce a series of poems in honor of the
Blessed Virgin, gniduuting poetical
expositions of her relations to failh
according to the progress of ber month
of May. It is just the topic for him,
and the result is the most beautiful
development of the entire subject that
can be imagined. We have no words
for the subtlety and success with which
the individnaUtics of Mary and Je^us
are wrought out. The man who, with-
out seeking adventiti>us aid by start-
ling and sliocking the habits of Chris-
tian thou!^ht and Christian reverence,
can «o draw a portrait of the Saviour,
baa in this alone de^en-ed the thanks
of the agcf as a Btandard-be^irer
oa the march of the hosta of God.

Thene grent delineationg form tJifl
first and main function of the whole
work. We cannot set forth hi? pu^
pose more lucidly than in hi« own
words, as we tmd ihcm in the preface j

" The wisdom of the church, whi( '
consecmtes the fleeting seasons of t
to the interests of eternity » has dedi*^
caled the month of May (the birth-diiy
festival, as it were, of creation) to her
who was ever destined in tUo diTiiiA
counsels to become the Mother
Creator. It belongs to her, of
as she is the representative of the In
carnation, and its practical expooeat
to a world but too apt to forget what it
professes to hold. Tlie following poems,
written in her honor, are an aitempt
to set forth, though but in mere out*
line, each of them some of the great
ideas or essential principles em
ied in that all-embracing mystei
On a topic so comprehensive, conv
statemeuls, at one tune illustrating
highest cxcelieoce compatible wt
mere creaturely existence, at aaotHeA
the infinhe distance between the cb«
of earthly creatures and the Creat
may seem, at first sight, and to som*
eyes, contradictory, although in rcali
mutually correlative. On an attcii<
live perusal, however, that harmon
which exiiits among the many portioi
of n single mastering truth can hai^l
fail to appear, and with it the ecoj
and aim of this poem*"

Tliis certainly is aiming high. N(
only does the poet include in his pi
the mora! delineation of her whom
church holJs tlie highest type of c:
ed humjinity ; he scales the hoavei
themselves. But our author is
impious Enceladus crushed beneath h"
own presumption, but a Jacob wrestU^
with the angel of the Lord, and risii
to the infinite sky in bca title risioi
Perhaps we best realize the boldn*
of the enterprise when we think for
how many centuries the praise of th
Mother and Son has exhausted
thought and imagination of the grej
est souls. He is a daring gleaner w
follows the fathei^ of the church ovi
tbeir chosen fields. Yet the Maf

tor
the

ve^B
[af

Avbng de Vert.

Ckrols are a sheaf from the Bame
golden ibiflon where Augustine and
Aquinas and Chrysostom led the
reapers. How fruitful must be the
soil!

We have never seen anything to
compare with the picture of the Holy
Qiild here presented, unless it be the
picTnre of the Holy Mother. We can-
not, in our allotted space, render all
the admirable gradations and delicate
shadings, but must cull with difficult
choice one or two only. One of the
first is the

MATB CBUSTL

" Dully benemth hii mother*! eyes
Her lamb malared hli lovllnest :
Tvas her* the lorely Hacrlflce
With fillet and vith flower to dress.

Beside Us little emu he knelt,
WUh tjunan-heerenl J lips he iirsjed ;

And ret hit will her v>iU obeyed. . . .

Ho wUted to Uck; he willed to beer ;

Ho willed by safferlnfr to be schooled ;
Be willed the chains of flesh to wear ;

Tot from her arms the world he ruled.

Am tapere ^mid tMs noontide glow
WUk merged yet teparate radiance bum,

With human taste and toaoh, even so,
The things he knew he willed to leani.

He tat beside the lowly door :
His MomeleM eyes appeared to trace

In evening skies remembered lore,
And shadows of his Father*s Csce.

One only knew him. She alone

Who nightly to his cradle crept.
And lying Uk^ the moonbeam prone

Wonhipped h€r Maker ae he elepL**

Whoever can read that without ad-
miring it, is a clod: whoever can
read it without having his whole idea
of Christ's childhood intensely vivified
and expanded, must be a St. John or
SD angeL How beautiful, and, when
we look at it, how bold is the epitliet
^homeless r* How exactly it em-
bodies the longing of his spint out of
its human prison toward the freedom
of the heavens! Yet how daringly
troe to imagine the omnipresent Deity
homeless 1 Again, how acutely the
last scene characterizes the tender
timidity of Mary's mother-love, and
how natural and intensely human the
eonsdous. sweet self-deception which
brooght her to worship when only
the humanity slept, and she seemed

separated from her Son and alone
with her Creator ! But the simile of
the taper is perhaps the best touch of
all, as being the masterly expression
of one of the most subtle and difficult
conceptions of the human mind. It
must divide the honors of comparison
with the concluding lines of the

MiTKR BALTATOKia.

" O heirt \.-lth his In Jnst accord !
Aoul his echo, tone for tone I
»plrit ihat heard, and kept kls word !
couutenanco moulded like liis own 1

Behold, she seemed on earth to dwell (

But, hi<l in liffht, alone she sat
Beneath the throne ineflable,

Chanting her clear magnificat.

Fed from the bonndlefis heart of Ood,
The Joy within her rn§e more high.

And all her belns overflowed.
Until the awful hour was nigh.

Tlien, then there crept her spirit o*er
The shadow of that pain world-wide,

Whereof her Son the substance bore ;—
llim offering, half in him she died.

Standing like that etrange moon^ ichereon
The maek qf earth lien dim and dead^

An orb (^ glory ^ •hadirtc-etreum^

Yet gwiled teith a lutninoue thread,"**

For originality, and perfect expres-
sion of an idea by an image, we know
of nothing better in all our range of
poetry than those two similes. Th^i
last is especially wonderful for its r?-
eonditeness. Who would ever think
of an annular eclipse of the moon as
an illustration of religion? And y(;t
how marvellously well it does illus-
trate! The tirst verse of the poem
is YQTj iKwr and strained in its rhythm,
and the second not much better in ita
mysticism, which is rather adapted to
the enthusiasm of the middle agod;
but the end counterbalances all.

Having thus digressed to the Bless-
ed Virgin, we go on to note in how
many lights these poems display her.
The idea of her they present is, to an
ordinary idea, as the flashing, many-
faceted jewel to the rough gem of the
mines. Here, for example, the whole
poetry of motherhood is pressed into
*lier service in a few dense lines :

"0 Mother-Maid ! to none save thea
Belongs in Aili a parent's name :
Bo faithful thy Tirgfoity,
Thy motherhood so pure from blamal

AtAreff dt Vm,

All oUier pftrentf , Wln.1 arc ibey t

Thy type*, Iri tbciii ibou diood'tt rehearst^d
(As tb?]r lu bird, und bud, and spray).

XkiAe Antitype ? Th« £iernal ¥\xi\ I

Prime f •*

Orr
Tbr

Tblu.

I row:
Llf bt of Ught,*

Her Sr^n Iht^a wert ; her Son Ihua art^
Cbrbt ! Her iubniaiice fed Uiy groinhf

SUe shaped Uiee lu ber rlrf^ia benri,
Thy Mother »ad tLy Father both 1"

Let us pas 3 on from this, witbatit
breaking the contimiity, to

OOSaBRTABAT IH CORDR,

*' A« every cbaase of Aprit tlcj
I« Imjkged In a pladd brook,
Uer medltatlre memory
Mirrored Ult erery deed and look.

Aj totia, Ihrotigh sammer etber roU&d,
I llAlure eocb growth that sprln j^ ^^ wrought
So io9e'$ strong day-ttar turmd to gold
M«r karvMtt qf quieteent ihottghL

li*r wtmi wa$ as a «o«e, and thons

TramducefU to on liiiMrray;
//«r M>ik*r'tjing9t wrvie iktrton

A mtftUc Biblt fiew #ao% tfioy.

1>eep hear! ! In all bli »ereQ-(bl(] ml;ltt.

The l*ar«clet« «lth thee atMide,
And, ftacmmeDted there In llghi.

Bone ▼itness of the tbtngi at God.*'

The last verse hm a flaw rai'e in
llici!5e voliimns — a mlxtni'6 of meta-
phors. In Uie first two Hues, ** heart *'
10 Btronglj personified, and clearly
represents Mary herself. In the
llJnli with no intJmation whatever,
and without a break in the constrtic*
tion of I he ecntence, the eame heart
U become a place, and is Indicated by
"there/* We cannot imagine how
the mitbor, with his susceptible taste.,
read it over in the proof-sheets with-
out feeling the jar of the phi^asea.

So much for the loving eide of
Mary's character. In depicting ber
ftiifierinj]^, the fH>et has even excelled
IbL), The Urdt broad stroke of hi^
picture is

bo Mood ; ahe f jiqIc nod, Slowly f«n,
Adown ibe cross, the atonlnf blood.

1b Rteny l&elTable
L Ibtofli

etXU bli owD lo Ood.

»wifif of his her tooaont tfiared,
floefdl ill litiu Itsarreral power.

B«t the III tie»ri hh ^irim%hf>4n\ ab«j«d:
8tie offered sacriQco Vukl haur. , « « .

Beautifully our author hag named
the sticceeding poem also Mater

Dolorosa. The one is the agooy of
loss, the other the bittemes^ of be-
reavement :

" yrnm her he passed ; yet tttU with her
The ead]«&i thouchi of him round rtai |
A fid bttt MOffT^d %9'amck of mfrrh
Fof'^ttt fo4d«d it^ KtrVf^tmL

Ahflreal r' ' " rf tl«ht—
So sti' Lve<l tiayn forlo»» :

Shr ittt, breast Qli ntg%i

lliir A(y<tfi ni*j ivaiiitt^ $iU lAe morfL

BtvA llowen on Cal?iiry tbaA freir;

8ad fruits that ripened from lbe«rai;
Tlieae were the only Joys she knetr,

Tel all but tltese sbo countfed loai,

LoTf strong as ilrath I Pl»e Uifed Ihfeofli Hm
That myotic life whOH' it*try l>r*aih

JTrom Ufe't Ime harfHttring omoroiMly
Druwit out the Jtur^t^Untd namt qfMctk

Love stronfK^r far than dcAili or life I
Thy m.trtyrdom wa* o^er at last

Ber eyelids drooped, and without atrtOB
To him she loved ber spkit paaied.*'

For once we can leave the
of a poem to the unaided italics witj
a good grace. To expound the eiH
quisiteness of these line4S would be likfl
botanically dissecting a lily. Bu
there is a dee[)er underlj-iug eJCceUenc
tliat may perhaps not su^geat itself «
iiTcsiskbly — the marvellous intuitiv
delicacy of the whole conception en
bodied by this poem. Only a iruy
profound religious feeling could thy
happily have cliaracterized the dFei^l
of such a sorrow on eucb a nature.
A mere pietist would have painted i
sanctified apathy ; a merely sma
writer would have imhued her will
an eagerness for the end of cart]
trouble; a man of talent would hav
made her resigned to death ; ihe m«
ot genius makes her resigned to U^
Here is the effortless exactness of
true p<>et*

Two more views, and we can t«
from this picture of the Ble
Virgin of the May Carols — one, lie
human /uid inferior relation to Godi
the other, her human and superior
lation to ourselves. To the first poin
perhaps the most explicit of the poen
is the following, which, also, is i
example of the author s peculiar, sad
deu manner of turning his broad
philosophy into the channel of aome
forcible application :

tffc

Asiht^ de Vert,

'* Hot aU Unr poritj, AltiMOgh
The wbltcst moonr VbaX vnt nt
Th« peaks <rf Lebanonlan ■now
Shoot diuk and dim compared with it ;

Not that great lore of thine, irhoee beama'

Traoaceoded in their Tirtuoos heat
Thoee tant which melt the loe-boond ttreams,

And make earth's pulses newly beat-
It was not these that from the sky

Drew down to thee the Eternal Word :
He looked on thy homlUty ;

He knew thee, ' Uandmaid of thy Lord.*

Let no one cl^m with thee a part ;

Let no one, Mary, name thy naine,
While, aping GkMi, apon his heart

Pride sits, a demon robed in flame.

Proad Tiees, die ! Where tin lias place,

Be sin's ikmiliar, self-disgust.
Proud rirtoes, doubly die ; that grace

▲t last may burgeon from yoor dust."

But the poem which of all most
truly, tenderly, and perfectly develops
the whole heautiful spiritual depend-
ence of the true Catholic upon the
Mother of his Grod, is the Mater
Divinte Gratis, already published in
The Catholic World for May, p.
216.

The beauty of this piece has abeady
attracted wide attention. The wonder
is that any Catholic could have passed
it by. It is a theological treatise in
itself. Could all the repositories of di-
Tinity furnish a more complete refuta-
tioD of those cold and narrow organisms
(we hesitate to caU them hearts) whose
breasts would seem to have room for
jost so much piety, of a prescribed
quality and regulation pattern, and
who insist that every one we love is
a unit in the divisor which assigns to
each his portion of that known and
limited store, our affection? These
people sincerely cannot see how one
can love Mary too without loving God
less. It is as if a tree could not strike
another root without sapping its trunk.
Perish this narrowness I How long
before these strait-laced souls — the
moral progeny of that unhappiest of
men, Calvin — will learn to love God
as well as believe in him ?

There is something very difficult of
analysis about the power of these
poems. They have none of that dra-
matic force which consists in skilfully
selecting and emphasizing the striking
sonnets of the situatioQ. De Vere's

VOU IT. 6

strength does Qot seem to iend toward
the outward personality, but rather lies
in the direction of the soul and its sen-
sations. When we lay down the May
Carols, we do not conceive a whit the
more clearly how the Virgin Mary
looked ; there is no impression to over-
lie and mar our memories of the great
painters' pictures of her. But we
cannot read aright without bearing
away an expanded comprehension and
near,, real, vivid insight into her love,
her pain, her humility, her deserving,
her glory. We so enter in spirit into the
scenes of her life as absolutely to lose
sight of the surroundings. This kind
of power may not be the most broadly
effective, but we must admit that it
reaches our admiration through our
best faculties. Its secret lies in the
fact that the author's own ideas both
of Christ and his Mother are so com-
plete and exalted. At what advan-
tage, for example, he stands over the
author of £cce Homo, who, it seems,
would have us believe Christ in his
childhood to have been a Hebrew boy,
much like other Hebrew boys, till ill-
explained causes metamorphosed a
Galilean peasant youth into the most
transcendent genius of history ! With
this cold casuistic theory compare De
Vere's picture of the mother lying
worshipping by the moonlit cradle of
her Son and Grod. He accepts in their
entirety the received ideas of the church,
neither varying nor wishing to vary one
jot or tittle of the law, but lovingly
investing it with all the developments
of thought and all the decorations of
fancy. No Catholic can help being
struck by the singular doctrinal accura-
cy which pervades without perturbing
the whole of this work. The result is
a portraiture of the incarnation and
the Blessed Virgin, such as an author
who could set all the ruggedness of
Calvary before our eyes, and make
every waving olive-leaf in Gethsemana
musically mournful in our souls, could
not hope to rival by all the efforts of
graphic genius.

But scarcely less remarkable is the
success in the other grand aim of the

Avhrmf de FewL

May Carols — wbat he himself calls
»*nn attempt: at a Christian rendering
of cxtemftJ TiAture." Hb attempt has
bro»i«rbt forth a series of purely de-
son ptive pieces, iiitfrsperged at inter-
Tab, inteaded to present tlie Bjnabol-
ism which the aspect of May*s 3Ucci_»s-
sive [>ha«iea might offi:r to the imaop*
nation of faith. To cuUivate Christi-
anity in the shitting soil of fancy is of
itiJ^elf a bold endeavor; but when the
method proposed i^ by |»ieturinflf the
delicate and evanescent shades of
spring's advance, the difficulty can be
realir^cd.

How far the author succeeds; in this
most subtle undertaking of educing
the symbolb^m of May, we must leav^e
to country criticism for final adjudi-
cation. We ha%'e our opinion ; we
can discover many sweet emblems ;
but we cannot analyze or reason out
our thoug-hts satistactorily. We recog-
nize portraits in the May-gallery, but
are not ftimiliur enough with nature^s
costumes to judge of the historical
onh^r. We can exult with the earth
in the gladness of the season j we are
jierrar'ated in a measure, as are all,
\^\\\\ the influences of the bluer skies,
the softer breezes, the more confident
advance of the tiowers. But when it
eoraes to reading the succession of the
changing clouds, Imrraonizing the mel-
ody of the gales, deciphering the hiero-
glyphics that spring's myriad fingeris
write in verdure on the woods and
meadows, we feel that ours is btit a
city acquaintance with May. We have
PL»sted too well content with the l>eatj-
ly to think of its moral suggesliveness
or signitieanee.

But this we do know, that the author
has struck such a vein of descriptive
felicity that, according to Dr, Holmes's
witty logic, he can afford to write no
more description till he dies. There
are touches of this here and there in
othei* places, but nothing to promise
such little gems of landscape as stud
the May Carols. There is an acces-
sion of naturalness and a flow of happy
phrases as soon as he reaches one of
these themes, that is like swimming

out of fresh water into aak T^
for instance, this :

-1

Ati'i Mim-.-T 11 w r,ri'i TiAK S'-"*J, f>MT

)«Tt<0,

.-^

Thtn HhtfkAii tfw (7htmJfn^U4 air

WUh - "'-- - - - ' .

^11

Grow 1

Fori 1

lim/tiiti

Along the aky thin a

BtLaht mf/thjfr» i
The wild eb4jlll«nc<* -•] li.--

Uiiigs Joy-bells iu ihe beart and tr^la.

Yd in i*

<ir» ulaf ,

It is a great dL^advauUige to thwe
beautiful little poems to be thus taken
from their frames, tliereby losing lh(!lr
emblemaiic and retaining only their
intrinsic beauty. But even so, Hubte
are two more which wo fearleMlv
present ou the merit of their own un*
aided charms. Here is the ^ret i

^d btti^K

ii-

Ciinariacdnroaniiher quvenly \\p

Tbe smile UlC Wnvr i Iru- ,, s ,1... lBl>T«f,

Ami t««fQ» ttirQtii^ti I ' 4 to f W|^

Of •ttftdkr Jo3'«ai

We scarcely know which to admire
most, the precise, clear-cut elegance of
the opening personification, the beauty
of the third verse, or the melody (how
the first line matches the sense ;) and
admirable comparison in the last onf.
Only, if the poet had ever waded
among ihe waves of bloom of our west-
era prairies, he would have found a
better ex[)ression than the awkward one
of ** deepening tides," which is oot of
character with the rest.

But the last one we give la the fine^L
We had put it in the first rank our-
selves before finding that it had also

^tt8r«y dM Vert,

Btniek the fine ear of Mr. Landor. It
is a Claude Lorraine done into verse :

'* Pleajiank the swano about tbe boagh,
The matdow-whiaprr round tbe woods,
Ami, for their coolness pleasant now,
Tbe murmur of the Calling floods.

Pleasant beneath the thorn to lie,

And let a summer fkney loose ;
To hear the cuckoo's double cry,

To make tbe noontide sloth's excuse.

Panting, but pleased, the cattle stand
Kne^eep in water^weed and sedge,

And scarcely crop the greener band
Of osiers round the river's edge.

But hark ! Car off the south wind sweeps
The golden-foUaged groves among.

Renewed or lulled, with rests and leaps—
Ah ! how it makes the spirit long

To drop its earthly weight, and drift.
Like yoD white cloud, on pinions Aree

Beyond that mountain's purple rift,
And o'er that scintillating sea I"

We do not think we can say any-
tMng that^ni add to this.

There are two very noticeable faults
of detail in the May Carols. One is the
great occasional looseness of rhyme.
We are no lover even of the so-call-
ed rhymes to the eye — words end-
ing, but not pronounced alike — but
^ien there is no similarity of sound
at all, we emphatically demur. Here
are some, taken at random, of the num-
berless false rhymes which disfig-
ure these poems : ^ Hills — swells ;"
" height— infinite ;" " best — least "
(these bst two in one short piece of
sixteen lines) ; " buds — multitudes ;"
"repose— coos ;" " flowei^ — more ;"
"pierce — ^universe," etc. Now such
^ these are utterly indefensible. The
different sounds of the same vowel
are as different among themselves as
from any other sounds, and there is no
^ns6 m taking advantage of the acci-
<fent that they are represented by the
same letter to cheat the ear and
plead the poverty of the alphabet,
t a man who labored for words,
^e could condone a roughness here
and there ; but in a wiiter of De
here's fluency there is no excuse for
^ch gross carelessness.

We observe also at intervals a kind
oT baldness of expression — a rugged-
oess and disregard of beauty in utter-
01^ ideas — that is unpleasant. We

think, with a learned friend who first
drew our attention to it, that this comes
of the authors anxiety and determina-
tion to be clear. The lines seem like
men trained down to fighting-weight —
all strength and no contour. No doubt
the high and difficult ideas to be ren-
dered (for it is never seen in the de-
scriptive interludes) constitute ample
cause for this fault ; but yet, in notic-
ing the whole, we are constrained to
note it as a blemish.

It remains to speak of the author^s
poems on Ireland. Here it is evident
that he feels warmly as the chief or-
ganizer himself; and yet nothing can
be further from to-day's Fenianism
than the tone of his writings. Irish
they are to the core — as animated as
the best in proclaiming the wrongs of
Ireland and the misrule of the in-
vaders — ^but from the same premises
somehow he seems to draw a different
conclusion. This is to our author one
of those near and dear subjects which
are elements in a man's inner life : he
has published another yolume ♦ upon
it, and a large portion of his poems
turn on it. Most of the best among his
single poems — The Irish Celt to the
Irish Norman, the Ode to Ireland,
the beautiful Year of Sorrow, and
others — ^are either too long or too close-
woven for quotation. Another able
one is The Sisters, which is full of
beautiful thoughts, independent of the
Irish bearing.

But the most prominent and elaborate
of these poems is Inisfail, or Ireland in
the Olden Time — a chronological series
of odes, songs, and all manner of re-
marks in rhyme, illustrative of Ire-
land's history and the feeling of her
people, through the various ei>ochs of
her national and denationalized life.
There is more historical research, more
talent, and more time buried to waste
in this poem, than would make ten
ordinary shallow reputations. The
author shows a thorough and a vitalized
knowledge of Irish history, and he
penetrates well and nobly the succes-

* English Misrole and Irish KUsdeeds. London, l&&8w

Aubrey de Vert*

ftions of popular gentimenl ; nay, b«
liaA done a more difficult tMog §tiU —
he has caught much of the spirit of
baidic yer«e. Only our very decided
and deliberate opinion ijs, that the
spirit of bardic verae is extremely like
the gorilla — very hard to catch, and
not particularly beautiful \vhen caught.
We have read, we are fairly sure, the
better part of the Englisli-Insh poetry
tliatha^ attained any note — that claijs
of which Clarence Mangan stands at
the head, and are very much grieved
and digsatii^fied with it. Wherever
the Gaelic ode-fonn is adopted, or the
Gaelic symbalism — the Roisin Dim,
Silk of the lune, etc. — we ciinnot help
wishing it absent. AVbatever hii^
pleased us in jK)ems of this sort would
have pleaded as well or better in an-
other guise ; whatever has faligut d or
offended, has generally done so on
account of its Gaelic form. From
weary experience, we have readied the
firm conclusion that the Gaelic style is
peculiarly adapter! to the Erse tongue,
and we eamei^tly hope that future
twangings of the harp that hung in
Tara's^ halld may be either In the afore-
said dialect, or eke, like Moore's Irish
Melotliea (and doe« any one wish for
auy thing more nobly Irish ?), conso-
nant in etyle with the spirit of the
language they are written in. The
best talent devoted to grafting Gaelic
(lo^soms ou English dternd has only
Brved to show them essentially uncon-
'geniaL Every attempt of this kind
reiub like a tmoslation from Erse
into English, and, like all translations,
liiut^ iu every turn of the superiority
of the origmaL And, speaking disin-
rere.stediy (we are, as it happens,
neither Gael nor Sa8i?enach). we
scarcely think any translator likely to
vim in watei*^ where Clai*ence Man-
gin barely floated-

Thus we a<lmirc much of Ini^fail for
,Uie wonderful ada[>tivenesg which re-
vivifies for us the dead feelings of dead
Pn era I ions, while at the same lime wo
cannot thoroughly like nor eiyoy iu
There is gn.'at artistic taste ihroughouti
but the poetical merit, as indeed might

be expected, uppeiirs to Ud to be gmlttt

in the dellneattons from the fourteenth
to the ^seventeenth centurv' — neither too
far nor too near in point of time. Thr
outlawry timeg elicit some fine linci:
in fact, violation of law seems alwar«
tu bring our author out at tti? t>f*it.
Of the earlier poems, perl nt

are The Malison and The I jjv

nmn. These are of the first, or pure
Irish period. The next, or Imh'
Norman epoch, is full of tbe best and
the worst of our author's verse. Of The
Biinl Ethell we have »poken before.
The Bier that Conquered is a striking
poem, as are also the <pminl^ rambling,
snggciJlive linea called The Wedding
of the Clans. Amid several long,
fierce, and highly Gaelic exultation!*
over battles, chiefs* and tlnngn In
general, we find a uo!)le |x>em. The
Bij^hop of Itoss, which we ix^ally re-
gret we cannot quote here* Joat
before it, however, is one of the
which we may have space for :

A.O. tfiSIL

*' Tliuj hft1>Me Dm 9tnms ones, * Tlie cSmIa li aket*
eweJ I

Ye Clin I' -li*rpt

With UiB < ueO.

Bill It Kr
Wv ar '^. >t»U;

tun

Tl.*

i or biilM

A locUlm. afi»«f«!*

" Wc ininrw tbm : Our Miuotry't lionor
To tilt U di^fkT as ouTCOniilrv'!' HfV !

ThJtt ntljp^iitOi* b»c| Imv ! 'T

Is Uie hminl on the fi> Ihm wtfllk

Tilt

I io *rrer,

Ther« is the Ime ring aliout tliis-^
gti*en;?tli und spirit both. Closr; by
it is aiJurh<:-r — the only one of theodc«
w^e like — The Suppression of the Faith
in llhter, which ia of the ^me cali-
bre.

The Inst book (there are three) is
full of beauty as the Btyle gniws mod-
ern. But we have cited so mnrb th
h beiiutifuL that we prefer quoliiig c
of tiie few but fonrible tnalance^ wher
our most Christian poet gives vent to

AuJkrty de Vert.

bis veiy coDsiderable powers of sai^
casm:

** The jtrang lord beirajed an orphan maid —
The Tooog lord foft-naUired and easy :

Tbe man was * food-hearted,* the neighbors said ;

FloDff meat to his dogs ; to the poor flung bread.

Ills father stood laughing when Drogbeda bled ;
He hated a fonsdenoe qneasy I

"* A widow met h!m, dark trees o^erheadf
Ucr child and the man Just parted —

When home she walked her knife it was red ;

Swiftly she walked, and muttered, and said,

* The blood rushed fsstfrom a fount fhll-led I
Aj, the yoong lord was right '* good-hearted 1" *

^ When momlBg wan ha flrst beam shed.

It fen on a corpse yet wanner ;
The greai-hearted dogs the yoong lord had fed
Watfdied, one at the feet and one at the head —
Bat their months with a blood-pool hard by were red ;

They lored— 4n the young lord*s manner."

There is something about the fierce
bitterness here that strongly reminds
one of Tennyson's poem of The Sisters,
with its weird line —

«* Oh I the Eaii was fklr to see r

From several of very nearly the
same purport, we select the following,
influenced to choose it, as we own, by
the wonderful flow of its measure, as
well as its truly Irish beauty. There
is a kind of peculiar richness of dic-
tion that no other nation on earth ever
attains. Every reader of Tom Moore
will know what we mean, and recog-
nize a kindred spirit in

** The moon, fk^sbly risen from the bosom of ocean.

Hangs o*er It suspended, all mournful yet bright ;
And a yellow sea-circle with yearning emotion

Swells up as to meet it, andelingn to iU tight.
Toe orb, nnabidinc, grows whiter, mounts hiffher ;

The patho& qfdarknfM dfeendt on the brine—
Erin ! the North drew its light from thy pyre ;

Thy llf^t woke the nations ; the embers were thine.

■ ** ^Hs sunrise I The mountains flash forth, and, new-
reddened,
Tbe billows grow lustrous so lately forlorn ;
from tbe orient with vapors long darkened and
deadened.
The trvmpet* <^ Godhead are pealing the mom :
He rises, the sun. In his might reascending ;

like an altar beneath him Uee blatlng the »ea t
Erin ! who proved thee returns to thee, blending
The future and past In one garland for thee !*'

But what we regard as really the
finest poem in Inisfail is an apparent,

perhaps a real, exception to our rule
above stated, that whatever of this^
poetry pleases us would please as well
if divested of its Graelic form. The
charm of this lies in its being so essen-
tially Irish in conception. It is just
such an original, bold; wild inspiration
as no other body than an Irish clan
could without incongruity be made to
feel. There is more intense Irishness
(what other word will express it ?) in it
than in all the poems — ay, and half
the poets— of this century. We give
it with the author^s own explanation
prefixed:

TBI FBAVTOM fVWtOLAU

" James Vita-Garret, son of the great Earl of Des-
mond, had been sent to Kigland, when a child, as a
hostage, and was for seventeen years kept a prisoner
in the Tower, and educated In the Qucen*s religion.
James llts-Thomas. the *Sugane Earl,' having
meantime assumed tne UUe and prerogatives of Earl
of Desmond, tbe Queen sent her captive to Ireland,
attended by persons devoted to her, and provided
with a eondilional patent fbr his restoration ....
As the young earl walked to church, it was with dif-
ficulty that a guard of English soldiers could keep a
path open for him. From street and window and
housetop every voice urged him to fidelity to his an-
cestral faith. The youth, who did not even under-
stand the language in which he was adjured, went on
to the Queen's church, as it was called ; and with
loud cries his clan rushed away and abandoned hts
standard for ever. Shortly afterward he returned to
England, where, within a few months, he died.

Strew the bed and strew the bier

(Who rests upon it was never man)
With all that a little child holds dear,

With violeU blue and violets wan.

Strew the bed and strew the bier

With the berries that redden thy shores, Corann ;
His lip was the berry, his skin was clear

As the waxen blossom— he ne'er was man.

Far off he sleeps, yet we mourn him here ;

Their tale was a falsehood ; he ne'er was man !
*n9 a phantom fkineral ! Strew the bier

With white lilies brushed by the floating swan.

They lie who say that the false queen caught him
A child asleep on the mountains wide ;

A captive reared him, a strange faith taught him ;—
'Twas for no strange fkith that his father died I

They He who say that the child returned
A roan unmanned to his towers of pride ;

That his people witli curses the false I-^rl spumed :
Woe, woe, Kilmallock 1 they lie, and lied I

The clan was wroth at an 111 report.
But now the thunder-cloud melts In tears.

The child that was motherless played. " *Twaf
sport"
A child must sport In his childish years !

Ululah ! Ululah I Low, sing low I

The women of Desmond loved well that child I
Our lamb was lost In the winter snow ;

Long years we sought him In wood and wild.

How many a babe of FitBgerald*s blood
In hut was fostered though bom in hall t

The old stock burgeoned the fair new bud.
The old land welcomed them, eaeh and all I

Aubrey d$ Vere.

Glynn weept t<H!ay by the ShAnnon^s tide,

And 8hanld and she that frowns o^er Deal ;
There is woe by the Laune and the Carra's side,
• And where the knight dwells by the woody Feale.

In Dingle and Beara they chant his dirge :
Far off he faded — onr child— sing low !

We hare made him a bed by the ocean's sarge«
We have made him a bier on the mountain's brow.

The clan was bereft ! the old walls they left ;

With cries they rushed to the mountidns drear.
But now great sorrow their heart has cleft ; —

See, one by one they are drawing near !

UlQlah ! ITlulah I Low, sing low I
The flakes fall fast on the little bier ;—

The yew-branch and eagle-plume over them throw !
The last of the Desmond chiefs lies here."

We close, far from completing our
sketch of the poet. We have not ex-
hausted the volumes before us, and
they do not exhaust their author. De
Vere has written several other books,
mostly of early date — from 1843 to
1850— which one must read to know
him entirely. But we are very sure
that those who will read the books
from which we have drawn our illus-
trations wiU read alL There are few
authors who grow so upon the reader.
Somehow the force and beauty of the
thoughts do not impress at first.
We think the rationale of the process
is that we mostly begin by reading
three parts of sound to one of sense.
After the melody comes the harmony ;
gradually, on after-reading, the glitter
of the words ceases to dazzle, and
then, if ever, we commune mind to
mind with the author. This is as rare

with modem readers as a hand-to haad
bayonet fight in modern battles. Now
Aubrey de Vere writes a great deal
of thought so very quietly, tliat we
miss the cackling which even talent
nowadays is apt to indulge in on lay-
ing any supposed golden eggs of wis-
dom. Hence we have some singular
opinions about him. One finds him
cold ana impassible ; another votes
him a sort of gentlemanly Fenian vis-
ionary, while a third devotes a column
of one of our best hypercritical pe-
riodicals to viewing him as a mere
love-poet. These are all wind&ll
opinions, which had been better rip-
ening on the tree. The grace, the
rhythm, and, above all, the stem as-
cendency of truthful exactness over in-
accurate felicities of expression, strike
one constantly more and more.' We
have ourselves passed through these
phases of opinion, besides several
others ; but every day fortifies our
final conviction. It is, that Aubrey
de Vere is one of those true poets
whom the few love well; who will
always have admirers, never popular-
ity ; and who must wait for his full
fame until that distant but coming
day when blind, deep movements of
unity shall thrill the sects of Christen-
dom, and bigotry no longer veil from
the gifted and appreciative the merits
of the first Catholic poet of to-day.

lheoiwiel$d; «r, Old Tkomtle^s Birin.

From The Lamp.

UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.

CHAFTBR X.

unconvicted!

Up to the time when James Ball en-
tered the witnesB-box, the whole case
had been dead against the prisoner.
Even the graire donbts which the
cross-examination raised about the
hoQsekeeper's veracitj had passed un-
substantiated bj any further evidence
or proof; and the cook's story of the
footstep on the stairs died out of all reck-
oning in the modicum of balance left in
favor of the accused man when Davis,
the chemist, had closed his evidence.
But when his luckless assistant got
down, after making such astounding
admissions, we breathed again, and
hopes that had been trampled under
foot rose once more with renewed
boojancv. The rigid fiice of Ser-
jeant Donaldson relaxed into anxious
gravity, and the frank, genial counten-
ance of Mr. Forster — Hugh Ather-
ton's contemporary, and at whose side
he had fought many a legal battle —
shook off its cloud as he sat down
and conferred with his senior col-
league; whilst I heard a deep sigh
of relief burst from Merrivale as he
Uiuttered, ** Thank God, we have got
over that ToekV^

Then Donaldson rose. I think I
Hear and see him still, that grey-head-
ed Serjeant, with his rugged Scotch
features lighted up by all the earnest-
ness of his will, all the acute intelli-
gence of his mind, as he turned to the
jary, and in a voice tremulous with
emotion, though it failed not to set
for.h the firomess of his purpose, and
(be honest conviction of his soul, open-
ed his defence of Hugh Atherton.

^< Though standing at this bar," said
Serjeant Donaldson, ^with a heavy
doud of accusation overshadowing
his hitherto stainless name, though
branded by public opinion with the
foul epithet of murderer, I can still
call Mr. Atherton ' my friend ' with-
out a flush of shame ; I can yet take
him by the hand and feel proud to
hail him brother by profession, com-
panion in the same vocation. If,''
said the Serjeant, raising his voice
and looking boldly around him, '^ the
last witness had never been placed
before you and made the remarkable
revelation which you have all heard,
I would still indorse what I have
just said, and assert to you, my lords
and gentlemen of the jury, my deep
and heartfelt conviction of the inno-
cence of the prisoner. But I have
other and better grounds upon which
to plead before you to-day — the only
grounds upon which you can legally
and conscientiously find a verdict."

He then proceeded to review the
evidence, pulling it to pieces, and cut-
ting right and left into every deposi-
tion, siiowing up the flaws, attacking
sans minagement the character and
veracity of the witnesses, dealing
blows with no gentle hand on every
side, and evidently lashing ^ his learn-
ed friend the SoHcitor-General '* into
a state of suppressed fury ; the whole
drift and gist of his argument going
to prove that, unless the fact of the
prisoner's visit to the chemist's shop
in Vero street did, to the minds of
the jury, involve as a necessary conse-
quence his purchasing the paper of
strychnine, that also being satisfac-
tonly established by conclusive ov-

f^cmivieted; or, <M 7%)rmk^t Bsin.

idence^ no verdict against the prii^oncr
coqM be found. On the other Laud,
ihe last witnesa has poditively declar-
ed that the strychnine had been pur-
chased under falae pretences hy a ie-
male^, and tluvt on the foLlowing day
huuh-monej had been sent to and re-
ceived hj James Ball not to identify
that woman who bought the poiBon.
Further, he should presently call a
witneiss who would corroborate all
thnt had been diecloded by James Ball
— one whom he, Ball, had evidently
considered as effectually silenced ; one
who, though but a boy, had given a
very steady, consistent, and lucid ac-
(*ouQt of what had transpired on the
evening of the 23d and on ihe follow
ing day. After commenting further
u[Jon this, and touching pointedly upoa
I lie curious coincidence of my rencon-
tre with the woman in Vere street
and the visit of the woman to Ihe
chemist's shop, be wound up his ad-
dress : ** There has been question to-
day, gentlemen, of one whose name
ftbould never have been dmgged be-
fore your notice, but who, in her
agonized wish of doing her feeble
part ID clearing him^ her betrothed
lutsband, from the foul charge laid
on him, has besought us, who are en*
gagt'd in his defence, not to spare her,
not to deprive her of taking her share
in the testimony we shall bring for-
ward in his favor. Gentlemen, tins
noble-minded girl. Miss Ada Leslie^
will tell you in what terms the prison-
4.»r at the bar used to speak of his de*
ceased uncle — the only guardian and
fnthcr whom he ever remembers — in
that intimate communion which exists
between a roan and the woman whom
he is going to make part of himself.
I need add no more. Providence has
shaken from under your feet the only
ground ujH>n which you could con-
demo ]SIr. Atherton ; Providence has,
to my mind, pointed out the road
along which further ^nquines into this
most heinous and wicked murder can
be punBtied. The same almighty and
just God will enlighten your under-
BtftDdingB and bring your minds to a

righteotis conclusion upon the
before you. But, gentlemen, all
as I said at first starting, we have bet
ter grounds than those of private con-
Tiction upon which to urge the prison
er's innocence^ — viz., those of proot
and evidence^ — still I cannot but think
you all feel with me that, a:^ you look
at him standing there^ aa you remem-
ber the tones of his voice, so familkr
to us in this court, urging upon lit the
arguments of a powerful miad, ihor*
oughly healthy in its moral tooe,
and the plead logs dictated by a heart
whose impulses were intruisically gea-.
erous and humane, whose guUel
soul— and 1 crave his pardon for
tering these wortls in his prrsencj
shone out of his honest eyes, and wl]
blumLdoss lite was openly known to
and clear as the noonday — ^I thin!
the evidence had been other than
was, or than that which you are goi
to hear will l)e, you would still be re
to exdatm, ♦ That man cannot be guil
of the crime imputed to him ; ttVia
innocent if A^ is proved guilty?^'*

I had no idea that Ada would be
court, far less give evidence ; and
concluded she had not mentioned it to
me lest I should object or be dis
ed on her account. The sen
was Irememlous in court when
tcred the witness-box, aceom[
her mother. The lattePs agital
whether aHected or real, seemed vi
great, and the frequent apphcatiun of
her handkerchief to her eyes betrayed
she was crying, Uow Ada had got
her there at all was a wonder ;
she remained silent when there, waa
greater marvel. Can I ever toi
her as she stood there, that tall slender
girl, with her pale cobrleas face of
calm and high resolve^ the dark sha-
dows beneath those eyea thai looked as
if now they never slept| but with the
steadfast light of deep, devoted adec-
tion shining in them as they fell upon
Hugh J her whole figure quivering
with emotion^ and her clasped baadft
leaning upoa tht! table belbix* her ? Ooe
look at 11 ugh, and then she retu
to the Lord Chief-Justice. 1 saw

got
»rg^

OneonvieUd; or^ Old I%amde^$ JEbin.

imdisgiiised rash of sympathj and of
interest flash across his countenance
as his gaze met hers ; and he leaned
towards her with the courteoos atten-
tion of the innate gentleman that he
was.

** 'hLj lord," she began, in tones that

at first were scarcely andible, though

peculiarly sweet, but which rose and

deepened as she went on, ^ I have

come here because there is something

I wish to say to you, although I know

yon think he is innocent ; but still I

had best say it For many months

past I have known every thought of

hb heart ; there has been no secret

kept back from me. My lord, he

k»yed that poor murdered man very

tenderly, even as he would have loved

his father had he lived, and he never

Bpoke of him but with kindness and

odfection. It was only on the very

day it happened that he was talking

with me of the future. We were to

bave been man and wife — oh, I trust in

God we shall still be ! — and that day

^ my Hugh, said how he was looking

ibrwftrd to the time when we should

We a home of our own, and he could

win his uncle away sometimes from his

solitary life, and make him come to

^ Do you think," she said, turning

with passionate suddenness to the jury,

-*^do you think he could say that to

*«) and an hour afterwards kill the

old man ? do you think that of him

who never bore an unkindly thought

even to a dumb animal P'

And then her womanly timidity
>^ed to come back, or physical ex-
citement overpower her; and when
Hr. Frost, a young and rather con-
<^^-kx>king man, rose with a view
<^l>tless to cross-question her, the
Solicitor- General waved him back, for
>be had sunk on the chair placed for
ber.

Then I heard, and hearing it my
'^^trt seemed like to break, a heavy
^roan burst from the prisoner's lips —
^ first sign of deep emotion that had
^leaped him during those long weary
Wb of suffering and suspense ; and
I law him stretch out his arms towai*d

her with a wild movement of unutter-
able love. Thank God, she neither
saw nor heard I Merrivale hastened
to her, and with her mother led her
out of the court.

Jacob Mullins was then called by
Serjeant Donaldson.

He said : '^ I am sixteen years of
age, and have lived two years with
Mr. Davis, chemist in Vere street, as
errand-boy. I take the medicines
home when made up, and make my-
self generally useful in the shop. I
never serve over the counter. I clean
the pestles, mortars, and all vesst Is
used, but I never serve out medicines.
I quite well remember the evening of
tlie 2dd. I was sitting at the far end
of the shop behind the counter, polish-
ing a brass mortar. I could see who
came into the sttop, because where I
sat was opposite the flap of the count-
er, and I looked through each time any
one came in. I wasn't very busy that
evening. I remember a tall gentle-
man coming in and asking for some
spirits of camphor. Master served
him ; Mr. Ball was in the shop. I sup-
pose it was about eight o'clock or there-
abouts. I never take much count of
time, except when I have to hurry.
He didn't buy anything else. I am
quite sure of it ; 1 could swear it. I
was listening all the time. He was a
very tall gentleman. I think it was
the prisoner at the bar; be was like
him, but he had his hat on."

Baron Watson : " Let the prisoner
put on a hat."

Witness : " Yes, that is the gentle-
man. I could swear it is the same."

Serjeant Donaldson: "What hap-
pened next ?"

Witness : " A few minutes afler the
gentleman went out, a lady came in.
I did not see her face. She had on a
thick veiL She asked for a grain of
strychnine. My master was out of the
shop. Mr. Ball said to her, * Tliat's poi-
son ; I daren't give it you.* * Oh,' says
she, ^ it's all right. It's for my husband
to try on a dog. He's a doctor.' * A
doctor !' says Mr. Ball ; * where does
he live]' 'Just round the comer—

UhcofiHctsd; or, Ofd 7%onui«^M Hmm^

I for

Mr. Grainger, at th3 top of Vere
etreel/ * All riglit^' sav^ Mr. Ball ;
and giies to the drawer where the
|>oi8ona are kept, and unlocks it, and I
eee him weijL^h it out and put it upJ

* How much ?' say a she- * A e hilling/
Bay* he ; * and I fihall come round pre*
B<*utly and s^ee if it's all rrj^ht** * Very
well/ fiaya she ; * come now if you
like/ * No, by-and-by/ says Mr. Ball,
'when the master's back/ On thiU
she went ouN I couldn't swear to her,
nor to what she wore. I never no-
tices ladied^ togs* She had a veil on —
that's all I know. I went home soon
after nine that evening, Mr. Ball
sleeps in the house. The next day
we lieard that old Mr. Thorneley of
Wimpole street had been poisoned by
stryehuine; and tlien, that tlie poison
had beeti boufrht at our i^liop. Every-
body waii talkiag of it who came in.
I went up to Mr. Ball when we were
alone in the shop at dinner-time, and
Bays I, ' It's aloag of that strychnine
Itiat waa bought last night here* I
guef*s» a^ tliG manJer's Wet\ done.'

* Hold your eoaibunded tongue/ ^ays
he, *or we shall get into a precious
mess.' He jaws awful at me some-

C8, and Tin afraid of him ; so J
id no more and kept alo(»f fi-om hira,
for he looked terrible blark all the
afternoon* At five o'clock the post-
man brt>ught in a letter for Mr. Brill
IJe was in the parlor having hii^ tea. I
called out there was a letter for hiray
and be came into the shop. I saw him
ope a the letter and take out a bink-
iiote. * My eyes I says I, * you'j*e in
luck to-tlay, Mr. BsiU/ lie was read-
ing the letter* With tliat, he turned
on me as fierce and red as a lurkey-
crick* *You yoang ^'iper/ Bays he,
'if yon go bhibhing about my affaii*?
1*11 get you diiicharged Jia sure a$ I
am ataiidiag here V I thought he'd
have killed me. Why haven t I told
this before ? Because nobotly's aske*l»
and because I have been frightened of
him* He's given me money several
limes lately, and mother's been ill^
and — " (Here the witness broke down
aud begsin to cry*) It waii no use the

gt!nilonian (ilie Sulicitor*G€oemI, mhn
waa crods-quedtioning hixzi) try tag to
bully him. He'd told the truth; U
was true as goepeU He'd take liii
oath any day. He oould and did
swear to it all. Nobody had ^ivia
liirn a farthing except Mr. BalL llc'd
only told tliid to a gentleman a few
days back wlio had sjioken to him aud
then served a paper on him to appear
to-day. The gentleman bad told
him afterwards he waa a deteothe
officer.

This wm the pith of what Jacob
Miitlins deposed. In vain »iid th a _
Solicitor-General try to i ^''^l

browbeat him ; he stuck IJK ipoH

to the same story. Coiilranie4i with
James Ball, only the same results pro-
duced. Serjeant Donaldson^ at Mcr»
rivales whispoied instigation^ tried to
bring out of them Iwth a clearer iden-
titicatiori of the person who had bought
tha strychnine* but in vain. Only
Mullins, in reply to a i|uery as to whe-
ther she spoke like a foif'igner, said he
couldn t ju»t exactly telU but she
seem to talk rather funny. Coafrui
at the ]>risoner's request with MnT
Haag, became confused, and said bo
dida t think it wad the lady ; it might
be and it mightn't ; was sure he never
could point her out for certain* But
althuugh the person who did buy the
strychnine had not been identified, the
fact that Hugh Atherton did nai buy
it wa8 satisfactorily proved, and tJiat
was matter for the deepest thaukful*
uess.

The two detective officers KeeTie
and Jones were next examined. To
what is aliTady known the following
was added : Ten years ago a man of
the name of Bradley had been coavict-
ed at the Old Bailey of burglary at
Mr* Thome ley's house in the City,
and sentenced to fourtL-eti years* penal
servitude. Ins(>ector Keene had been
employed in the case, and had been
helpi^d principally by anouymoiis let-
ters, giTtng infonnation which bad led
to the detection of the burgbir. Brad*
ley on being captured had hinted that
he kDew to whom he was indebted for

Oneanmeted; ar^ (Hd Thomde^$ Heirs.

htt apprehensioD. Thinking to ferret
oat some accomplice, Inspector Keene
had shown him one of the anonymous
communications received, and he had
inmiediately identiHed the handwriting
as his wife's. He then confided to
Inspector Keene that she was a for-
eigner, a Belgian by birth ; that he
had married her at Plymouth, and sep*
arated from her two years aher ; that
she was in domestic seryice — ^but
where and in what capacity he would
not divulge. Either fear of or affec-
tion for her seemed to be. greatly in-
fluencing his mind. Tliis same Brad-
ley had made his escape from the pe-
nal settlement in Austrah'a during the
spring of the present year, and had
been seen and recognized by Detective
Jones in a small public-house in Blue-
Anchor Lane, known as one of the
worst haunts of bad characters in the
metropolis. But unable with safety to
take him into custody on the night in
question, the police had lost sight of
him since, up to the present time.
Putting two and two together, Ins|)ec-
tor Keene had last week truvclled
down to Plymouth, searched the ptiro-
chial registers, found and obtained the
certified copy of marriage between
Robert Bradley and Maria Haag
which Serjeant Donaldson had hand-
ed in to their lordships. Further, De-
tective Jones stated, as a corroboration
of what I had already related in my
evidence, that this Bradley, or O'Brian,
u he now called himself, was in close
communication with a man of the name
of De Vos, aluts Sullivan, who again
was in communication with Mr. Lister
Wilmot ; this same De Vos, or SuUi-
^>D, having formerly been in prison
for embezzlement, and was now under
>OBpicion of uttering false coin. The
^ relation of the conversation be-
tween De Vos and 0' Brian on the
^t of our visit to ^ Noah's Ark " was
|KH without its effect upon judges and

iwy.

Both the Chief-Justice and Baron
Vatson put repeated questions to
Jones ; and the Solicitor-General quite
impasscd himself in his endeavors

to browbeat both him and Inspector
Keene. All to no purpose. Nor
could that learned gentleman in his
final address, after the case for the de-
fence was closed, at that supreme mo-
ment which English law gives to the
prosecutor to the crushing of all hopes
rabed by the evidence and appeal of
the prisoner — not then could he re-
move the impi*es8ion made on all
minds that a mystery hitherto unpen-
etrated lay beneath the last evidence
adduced.

The Lord Chief-Justice summed up.
He said that, to convict a man of mur-
der by poison, evidence must be ad-
duced to prove that the poison was
administered by the person accused ;
that the points of the case before them
were these : The murdered gentleman,
Mr. Thonioley, had on the evening of
the 23d of October lust received a
visit from his two nephews, Mr. Lister
Wilmot, and Mr. Philip Hugh Ather-
ton, the prisoner at the bar; that a
dispute had occurred between the three,
relative to advancing money by the
deceased to Mr. Wilmot; that the
brunt of Mr. Thorneley's anger had
fallen, strange to say, and from some
unknown cause, upon tho prisoner;
that the prisoner had retaliated, and
used words of threatening import, im-
plying that the deceased would repent
on the morrow what he had said tliat
night; that at nine o'clock the house-
keeper brought in the usual refresh-
ment of which Mr. Thorneley par-
took at that hour — bitter ale and bard
biscuits. The prisoner at the bar
went to the table, jwured out the ale
into a glass, and handed it to his uncle.
Soon afler the nephews, one after the
other, took leave of him and went
away. Mr. Thorneley retired to rest
tliat night about ten o'clock, without
having any further communication
with his household. In the morning
he was found dead in his bed. On
medical evidence ho is proved to have
been poisoned by strychnine, and
strychnine is found in the few drops
of bitter ale left in the tumbler out of
which the deceased had drunk on the

Vneontnded; or, (M ThorMh^% Erin.

previous evening. In the ale remain-
ing in the bottle no strychnine is found.
Now here arises a question and a
doubt Was there, or was there not,
any ale poured out in the glass before
it was brought up into Mr. Thomeley's
study ? The prisoner in his statement
before the magistrates, and before the
coroner, distinctly says there was ; the
housekeeper swears there was not.
Is the housekeeper's evidence to be
relied on? Much had been adduced
that day which tended to show that at
least it was doubtful. The Chief-
Justice commented at length upon the
evidence of the two detectives, and
then said :

"The suspicions, however, of the
police were directed to Mr. Hugh Ath-
erton; and the evidence had shown
that he was met coming out of a
chemist's shop in Vero street on the
evening of the murder, and before
visiting his uncle; that upon being
taken into custody the next day, an
empty paper, labelled Strychnine, and
bearing the name of Davis, chemist,
Vere street, was found in the pocket
of the overcoat which he had worn on
his visit to Wimpole street. On the
oilier hand, both James Ball, the
chemist's assistant, and Jacob Mullins,
the errand-boy, had sworn that the
grain of strychnine entered as sold on
the 23d was purchased by a female on
false pretenses. Both likewise swore
that the prisoner did not purchase any
strychnine, but only the bottle of cam-
phorated spirits found on his table.
Then, again, James Ball had owned
to i*eceiving a letter containing hush-
money, and a caution not to identify
the ])erson who had bought the poison.
How, then, did the paper labelled
* strychnine' get into the prisoner's
pocket ? He declares he knows noth-
ing of it ; and on that point there is
no further evidence. There was an-
other mystery also which in his, the
judge's, mind bore very direct influ-
ence uj)on the case in question; and
that was the assertion of Mr. John
Kavanagh that he had made and exe-
cuted a will for the deceased gentle-

man on the night of his death, leaving
the bulk of his property to a hither-
to unknown and unrecognized son,
which son and heir had been found
under peculiar and difficult drcom-
stances — a living confirmation of the
truth of Mr. Kavanagh's statement.
The question of this wiU was not for
the present jury to consider ; but sim-
ply they were to bear in mind the cir-
cumstances under which it was made,
the disclosures attendant, and, above
all, the &ct that whereas this last will,
conferring a handsome income on the
prisoner at the bar, remained a buried
secret from everybody, the prisoner
included, save the lawyer who made
it under solemn promise of sikncey
the other will, bequeathing a mere
nominal sum to the prisoner, and cut-
ting off with a shilling the rightful
heir, namely, Mr. Thomeley*s son,
was lodged with the deceased's family
lawyers, produced, read, and acted
upon by them and the sole residuary
legatee, Mr. Wilmot. This was to
be considered rw-^-w* with the motive
by which the prisoner at the bar was
implied to have been influenced to the
commission of the crime charged
against him." The Chief-Justice con-
cluded, after many more comments,
by saying that, although every one
must have been touched by the ap-
pearance and words of the first wit-
ness heard in the defence, yet that, as
far as evidence went, they must not be
allowed to weigh with any value.
The one great question, deduced from
all that had gone before, which the
jury had to consider was, whether
the prisoner at the bar had or had not
purchased the strychnine in question,
had or had not introduced it into the
glass of bitter ale handed by him to
the deceased, Mr. Thomeley. And
he prayed the God of light, and truth,
and justice to enlighten their minds
and guide them to a right conclusion.

I have but faintly portrayed the
clear, lucid manner in which that able
judge summed up the evidence, or the
deep feeling expresstni in every tone
of his voice. Cautious and prudent

Uneonvieted; or^ Old T%ameU^$ Birin.

to a d^reo as be bad been in bis lan-
goi^e, it jet gleamed out from time
to time, like a ray of sunsbine, tbat in
his own mind be considered Atbcrton
nai guilty. Tbe jury after five min-
utes' deliberation asked to retire.

Do you know wbat tbat suspense
is, — diat banging on eacb minute
whicb inigbt bring the issues of life
or death? Can you tliink wbat it
was to stand there for tbat hour and a
quarter, seventy-five minutes, forty-
five hundred seconds, when every
minute seemed an hour, and every
second a minute ; with the dead
silence reigning in tbe court, broken
only by casual sonnds now and then,
that were bushed almost instantly, to
HO great a pitch bad the interest and
suspense of tbe whole crowd collected
there risen ; your eyes fixed upon that
fatal door through whicb you knew
the decision would be borne, with your
heart throbbing in dull, heavy thumps
against your breast, and your breath
almost bushed and dying on your lips ?
So we stood that evening, the dense
November fog stealing into the court,
and the gas-lamps flaring garish and
yellow in the thick atmosphere, wait-
ing for tbe verdict. Twice over was
a message sent in from tbe jury-room
to tbe judges, demanding further ex-
planation or elucidation on some point
or other. And still we waited. At
kst the door opened, and they filed
back one by one into their box, and
took their seats in solemn silence, and
were instantly harangued by tbe clerk
of the court, and called upon to de-
clare whether Philip Hugh . Atherton
was guilty or innocent of wilful mur-
^. Amidst a dead hush, a stillness
tbat was thrilling in its intensity, tbe
foreman stood up and pronounced the
verdict, "Not Guilty." I saw the
pfifioner raise bis hands for one mo-
ii^ent, and then bis bead drooped on
bin breast, and be, leaned heavily
Against tbe railing in front of him. I
iaw Merrivale rise hastily, and, tum-
iog round, lay his band upon Hugh's
shoulder, and bis counsel eagerly
itrctching out their bands towards

bim in fervent congratulation ; and
then was beard tbe Chief-Justice's
voice addressing the foreman of tbe
jury:

"Tbe pecub'arities and complexity
of tbe case make it needful that we
should ask upon what grounds you
have given in your verdict."

Foreman : " We find tbe prisoner
not guilty, my lord, on the ground tbat
it is proved he did not buy the strych-
nine, and that the evidence of the
housekeeper is unreliable evidence.
But we think tbat until the mystery
of the murder is cleared up, suspicion
must still attach itself to Mr. Ather-
ton."

The Chief-Justice to the prisoner:
" It is usual to say whether we, before
whom a case has been tried, agree in
the verdict of the jury. Both myself
and my brothel* Watson do most fully
in this instance. We agree that upon
tbe evidence brought forward to-day
you could not by tbe criminal law be
convicted; but we also agree in tbe
remark made by tbe foreman tbat a
degree of suspicion and doubt will
I'est upon you so long as the real per-
petrator of this horrible crime is not
forthcoming. As having known you
under happier circumstances, 1 sin-
cerely trust and pray for your sake
tbat time may bring to light this hid-
den deed of darkness."

The judges rose and left the court.
Then arose from all parts a savage
yell of disappointment. Once before
1 told how thirsty the public were for
another sight of the hangman and his
victim ; and now to snatch their prey
from under their very eyes, with the
stain of crime upon him, with a shadow
of the gallows hanging over him, was
more than' tiiey could bear. Amidst
groans and hisses, amidst a deluge of
the foulest epithets, he passed out of
the court — Unconvicted. Uncon-
victed, but not unsuspected; uncon-
demned, but not unblemished. With
the taint of murder clinging to him,
with his fair good name tarnished by
the withering breath of imputed crime,
and his innocent life robbed of its

UneonvicUd; or^ Oid Thomde^i Shin.

noblest beauty in the eyes of his fel-
low-men, Philip Hugh Atherton left
that criminal court and became once
more a free, and yet a marked man
beneath his native sky. His whole
position opened out clear before me in
that one brief second which succeeded
the closing the trial — all its future
suffering and sorrow. Oh ! if he would
but now realize that at least one friend
was true to him, that one heart warm-
ed to him with the same affection as
ever, who would devote himself to
clearing away every cloud that dim-
med his future ! And dashing away
the blinding tears that would force
themselves into my eyes, I made my
difficult way through the crowd and
gained the outer court A carriage
stood opposite the private door, and a
double line of policemen guarded a
passage to it. I hurried forward.
Hugh Atherton and Lister Wilmot
passed quickly out, the carriage-door
shut, and they drove off.

" Atherton and Wilmot V* 1 was
saying the names aloud to myself,
when I heard a mocking laugh.
Standing beside me, and looking up
into my face, was Mrs. Haag.

** Have you been drinking again,
Mr. KavanaghP* she said in her
peculiar hard tones, and was gone in
a moment. But she led what she
little dreamed of leaving behind her —
the indelible impression on my mind
of her strong resemblance to Lister
Wilmot.

CHAPTER XI.
FOUND !

Yes, most undoubtedly, most unde-
niably, a strong likeness did exist be-
tween Lister Wilmot, old Thomcley's
nephew, and Maria Haag, Thomeley's
housekeeper, — a likeness that, as I
walked home from the Old Bailey
and recalled the various points in their
features and expressions, grew yet
more striking to my mental vision.
The housekeeper was fair, with sandy
hair; so was Lister Wilmot The

housekeeper's eyes were of
liar blue-grey, cold, paasi
their expression ; so were
Mrs. Haag's features were
perfectly Flemish mould, i
broad, flat ; Wilmot s were
fined, especially the nose^
they were of the same - stanr
ing for that difference. Bu
ticular resemblance lay in
acter of the tightly-drawn
the dark, evil, scintillating 1
gleamed from time to time ii
and her eyes ; the expressio
alluded to in these pagei
danger, of defiance; a gls
sent your blood shivering
your heart ; a look that tolc
as words could speak, of
lousness and utter relentle
the pursuit of any selfish
And as this forced itself wit
clearness upon my mind, I rei
the question put to me in ]M
office on the day of the fi
Inspector Keene, — " Did ;
see a likeness to any one in
mot ?** and my answer, ** No,
I know of. We have oftei
was like none of his relative
But how to account for thi
established so suddenly? I
recollect all I had ever hei
Wilmot Thomeley had acl
ed and treated him in all n
his nephew ; he was thus
the will made by Smith anc
and Hugh Atherton had toh
ter was the son of Gilbert
ley's sister, his own aunt ;
marriage had been an unha
that she died soon after ]
birth; and that of Mr. Wi
uncle-in Law, he knew nothin
had this stransre and striking
arisen ? Ilacl he been priva
ried to Mrs. Haag? Sui-ely
then I remembered what Y
out in court to-day about
nection with Bradley, alias
Old Gilbert Thomeley certi
no fool; he would have 1
wide awake to l)e tricked ini
riage with a woman of wh

OkeanvieUd; at, Old Thomde^M Heirs.

cedents he had not made himself per-
fectly snre. The conjecture of Haag
being his wife was dismissed almost
ts soon as it was entertained. Fairly
at a nonplus, and yet feeling that
much might come out of this new
otmviction, I resolved to send for In-
gpector Keene as soon as possible, and
impart to him all the crowd of thoughts
and speculations and ideas to which
the impression received this evening
had given birth. Meanwhile it is
necessary I should relate events as
thej happened after the trial.

Discharged and yet disgraced,
Hugh Atherton left the court that day
with his future blasted, with a blot on
his shield and a stain upon his name.
. The jury could not convict him, but
pablic opinion hooted him down, and
the press wrote him down. His char-
acter was not simply " blown upon '*
by the insidious soft breath of under-
toned scandal, but caught up and
sbivered to pieces in a whirlwind
Off bhame and ignominy. Friends
shmmed him, acquaintances cut him ;
^etj in general tabooed him, and
**thig taboo is social death." Society
8^ its ban upon him ; but Lister
Wihnot stuck to him. Stuck to him
tight and fast^-after this manner : He
^ent about from one person to an-
other, from this house to that, and
tallied of ** his poor cousin Atherton,
^is nnfortunate relative, his much-in-
jared fTiend.** He would ask So-and-
so to dinner, and then when the invita-
Hon was accepted, he would add,
"Too won^t mind meeting my cousin,
poor Atherton ; he is very anxious to
'ioaway with that unfortunate impres-
^ made at the trial ; I do assure
yoQ that he is innocent."

The consequences are evident You
^J damn a man with faint praise ;
yoQ may doubly damn a man by
O'eretrong patronage. And this was
4»e to perfection by Wilmot. He —
^ Joimg, agreeable, and not bad-look-
jiig man — was a far different person
in (be eyes of the world from rough
<M Gilbert Thomeley ; and when he
M^ped into the enormoos wealth of

his uncle — when, in spite of the exist-
ence of the son and heir,' no will was
forthcoming, no legal gnmnds could
be found on which to dispute his pos-
session, the world made her best bow
to him, and society knelt at his feet,
offered up her worship and swung her
censers before him. And I had to
stand aside and see it all — stand
aside with the bitter smart of broken
friendship, of rejected affection, ran-
kling in my breast. That fatal even-
ing, oh that fatal evening ! One word,
and he had« turned with me, friends
for evermore ; one word, and all the
anguish and misery, the blight and
the sorrow, of the past weeks had
been saved !

Hugh and I never met after his
trial but once. It was on the 3d of
December, the day on which Ada
Leslie attained her majority, that I
saw him for the last and only time.
I w€?nt to Hyde Park Gardens early
in the morning, to offer her my con-
gratulations for her birthday, to relin-
quish my guardianship, and to settle
many matters which were necessary
on her coming of age.

I need not say that it cost me some-
thing to give up the sweet relationship
of guardian and ward ; that it was
like bidding a farewell to almost the
only brightness that had been cast
across my path in life. There was
much business to settle that day, and
perforce I was obliged to detain Ada
for a long time in the dining-room.
Just before I i*ose to leave, Hugh
came in. He greeted Ada, and then
turning to me simply bowed. My
blood was up ; now or never should he
explain tlie meaning of his past con-
duct; now or never should the cloud
which had intervened between us be
cleared away; now or never should
the misunderstanding be removed.

** Atherton," I said, ** I have a right
to demand the cause of this change in
you ; I have a right to know what or
who it is that is murdering our friend-
ship. No, Ada, do not go away. Be
my interpreter with him. Tou know
how much cause he has had to doubt me."

UneoTtvicied ; or, Old Thortuley*^ Beirt,

I wiw his face working as if power-
ful emotions* were cootendiiig for mas-
ter}' in him ; but he answered in very
coUl, nieaflured tones : ** If I have been
mistaken, if the heavy load of ti-ouble
I have had to go through has warped
my judgment, I trui^t I may be for-
given ; but I sec no reason at present
to wish that onr former intimacy
shoultl be renewed.**

** But why ? iQ heaven's name,
why r

lie looked towards Ada, who was
standing near him, and then at ine.

"If your own lieart, Kavanagh,
doe* not sup])ly the reason, I have
nothing more lo eay.'' And then, as if
a sudden impulse had come over him,
he 6t retched out hii* hand to rac, and
as I gra^^ped it lie said in a voice
that shook with agitation : ** It is hest
for us both, John ; we can only for-
give and forget."

** Hugli !** said Ada, laying her
hand upon his aim, ** do be friends
with him. I cannot imagine what has
made joa think eo ill of your best
and Imeat friend."

But fi»r reply he sliook his head
and quickly letl the room. I took my
leave of Ada and wen! away. And
thus we parted— Hugh and I, after
more than twenty years passed aU
moat entirely together in the most in-
timate communion of friendiihi[> — ^a
friendahiii that I for one had never
thought could have been broken savo
by death, and wliich even then would
have risen ^strengthened, piiriiicd, and
perfect beyond tlie grave.

Weeks passed on after this last
roeettng. I was very much occupied
with busme^s that had been accumu-
laling during the past tlirec months,
and I was thankful to phingc into it,
and drown in the overpress of work
bitter thoughts that roee but too coo-
Btantly for my jjeace. I seldom if ever
wont lo Hyde Park Gardon&, How
could I after Hugh Aiherton s steady
reftisal of any explanation? for I knew
1 nhould constantly meet him there,
and it would pnjve only a faource of
pmo to us all. Pour young Xhorneley

remained under mycaro; HentvaW

had l>ecn told by Hugh I ha!
not interfere in any way, «
rojike over the fiOOO/* left hitLj
uncle to the idiot. Fnrthr-r, 1
that be had withdrawn hLs r
the barrister*8 roll; but n«M
as to his future movements tmu
The housekeeper had suddenly
pea red, .*ind with her had likewi
appeared Inspector Keene. Jout
me he belie veil he had gone, on hi& own
responsibility, ** to keep an ey*^ ^",
her.'* So December went by, i
mas had gone, and the new yt- a
set in. ** 1 shall hear of their oian m:
soon / I thought to myself, *• Sutviy
they will let me know that/* And it
waa now the end of January, when
one day, ns I waa deep over Fome
papers, the door of my privutr offirc
opened, and a young clerk who wn-t
rephicing Hunly, luid up with a fit ot
gout, looked in. ** A lady, sir, wants
to see you, *

"What is her name? Tm ycnr
busy. If it's nothing particular, atk
her to call to-morrow.'*

** She says it's most particular, and
she won^t give her name. She'* very
young, and I tiiink ghe*8 crying,^

**Then show her in.'

And in a momeut Ada Leslie ttood
before me.

"Ada! my dear child, what is it ?"

She was trembling violently.

" Gone 1" she said in her heiut-
broken accents.

'* GonR r I repeated. " Who ?•

** Hugh, Gone to Australia. Xjook
here P and she thrust a crumpled letter
into my hand. It was indeed a $»x^
well i'rom him — a farewell wriltfll
with all the pai^nionatc tendcrDe«e of
his love for her, but admitting not the
shadow of a hope that he would falter
in his detenni nation. It was more
than he could bear, he said, the dis-
grace that had leen heaped ujion bim ;
more than he could stand, to meet
the cold averted looks, the sneere, tbe
innucndos which fell go thickly on bk
path. Kor would he condemn her to
shitre his lot ; the shame that had oome

DkeoHvicUd^' OTf Old T7wnuktf$ Heirt.

on nim should ilever be reflected on
her. He bade her farewell with maoj
a TOW and manj a prayer. She had
been his first love, she would be his
last ; and to know a^ was happy would
be ail he would ever care to hear from
the land he was leaving, even if that
happiness were shared with another.
Much more he said, and I read it on
to the end.

"" How could he I Oh, how could he P
she cried, wringing her hands, when
I had finished and laid down the letter.
'^ Did he not know my whole heart
and soul were bound up in him ? Did
he not know that he was my very life ?
And he has gone from me, left me."

I coald not answer for a minute. I
was thinking deeply.

^'Adftf^'Isaid at last, << this is not
oitirely his own doing. It is Lister
Wihnot's.*

^No, nor* she said, moaning and
rocking herself backwards and for-
wards ; ^ you are mistaken. He is in
great distress about it. This letter was
bdosed to him last night; he knew
nothing of it.^'

*^Ada, I feel convinced that he did
and that he does know. Child, let me
speak to you once more as your guar-
dbi and your dead fathers friend.
Take your mind back to that momiug
before the inquest, and to a conversa-
tioQ which passed between us then.
Yoa remember that Wilmot had been
at joar house before me, and repeated
something which poor old Thomeley
ttid the evening of his death — some-
tluog about you and me. You called
it then, Ada, ^ worse than foolishness ;'
M I will call it now. Do you remem-
ber?'

'*Ido,''she said faintly, the color
risiog to her cheeks.

'^That has been dragged out several
times since, privately and publicly —
alvajrs by Wilmot himself or at his
iaitigation. Has Hugh never spoken
iboatit withyouT'

^Yes,*' she answered in the same
kw tones. ^ He spoke of it once, very
ktely. I was trying to persuade him
to be friends with you. It was the

VOL. IV. 7

cmly time he ever said an unkind word
to me ; but he was angry then." A sob
broke from her at the remembrance.

^ I don^t wish to distress you ; but
just think if those thoughts and feel-
ings were put into his mind and harped
upon, traded with by one professing
himself to be so staunch a friend just
now,— can we wonder at the results ?"

She looked at me as if she hardly
understood.

^' I mean,'' I said, speaking as calmly
as I could, ^ that he was led to believe
it true. He thought I was attached to
you, and desirous of winnmg you from
him."

She was silent for some moments.

<< What am I to do ?" she said at
last

And I too was silent One thing
presented itself to my mind, if only I
had the heart to speak it out, if only
the courage. Suddenly she looked up
with a happy light in her eyes and
almost a smile on her lips. She leaned
forward with breathless earnestness.
I felt instinctively she had thought
on the same thing, and that she bad
resolved to act upon it

^ I can go after him. That is the
right thmg for me to do, is it not,
guardian ?"

For a moment my heart stood still.
I knew she would go.

" Can you bear the voyage, Ada ?"

"I could bear anything,— all for his
sake."

And I felt that her answer was but
a faint shadowing of the great truth
that filled lier heart

" Then go," I said ; " and may God's
blessing go with you !"

I rose, turned my face towards the
window, and looked out into the deso-
late square with its leafless trees, its
snow-covered walks ; looked out into
the dull blank future, into the cbeer-
lessness of coming years.

There and then it was settled she
should follow Atherton to Australia by
the overland route, and thus reach
Melbourne before his ship could arrive.
I asked her if she would not find great
difficulty in persuading her motl^r to

»s

OkeonvieUd; ar^ Old 7%onulejfM Hnn,

accompaoj her, and without whom she
could not go; but she told me she
Uiought not ; Mrs. Leslie would rather
enjoy the excitement of travelling. We
talked long and earnestly that morning,
and I expressed to her my strong con-
victions that the daj would come be-
fore long when we should see Ather-
ton cleared from the remotest suspicion
of his uncle's murder. All the sweet
old confidence of former days seemed
to have come back, and she opened
her heart fully and freely to me. I
learnt from her very much of Wilmot's
late conduct, of which I mentally made
iintos; it was all, though she little
thought it then, valuable information
to guide me on to the one thing I had
H(!t my heart on doing, viz., sifiing the
niyslcry of Thomcley*8 murder and
the discovery of the lost will. Before
sho left me I had exacted a promise
that of her intended journey nothing
Hhould \m\ said to Wilmot ; and finally
w(» flx«Hi on the 4th of February for
her to start.

The ilayaration
iM)nip1o(o<l for thoir long journey. Up
to thut nionuMit tlu* pminise made to
nti« hnd Ihmmi rigidly kept, and Lifter
Wihnot wait Htill in ignorance of thoir
inhMulod movomontiu His absence
\\\\\\\ XwYsw for a fortnight n^niloi\Hi this
w oon))mnuivoly onsy tusk, and ho was
not o\|hvUhI to rtMum until afior tho
t»lh. K\\\ tho ovoning of tho l$t I
nHMMxinl \\ noJo fr\MU Miss* l*<*5lio,

** I h:ivo Uvn jjrt*Atly takon bv sur-
I ris;* and niuohilislrt^sMHl.'* sho wn^o ;
" On!* uiorninjsV |hvH bnnifhi mo an
oiUt of )n:UTi:))^^ t'lvm l.istor AVilmot,
Mo >)M^tik^ «^* lliii^ir^ hoanlo!^ dosor-
nou rtn,l hi:» own A***!* atiAohmonu
l-Hhoi ho H lUA^lordoliN^ra'oh ins;:l:*
»oo. I *'ntivrtt \on lo aol »:» it' \*^i s:ill
\%oio» Ami %^»\At I ^^A^l jiUn\s ^vnsv.or
^Oii. mx >:u!ii>lt;WK .'^nd answor i: !>r
m»'. \ luM\ib1o !'o;*r »m' hr.w ivxvSv sm^s
^1K^. Atvl aU I |MAV i* \\\:\'. \\c^ nw\
know noiloni;: *\t lIU'i iMJr,^;^x U;*,I;1 oo

"^ This then," said I to myself, as 1
sat down to do Ada's bidding, ** is the
reason why Hugh was got ^ so sud-
denly and secretly. The secret is out
at last, Master Wilmot ; but you have
overshot your mark. This time you
have not a trusting friend, not a con-
fiding girl, to deal with ; but with me,
a man of law ; and I'll be even with
you yet. IVe a heavy grudge to wipe
out against you, and jou shaii smart
with a bitter smart"

But before all it was necessary to be
prudent, and I answered his letter to
Ada with temperate words and calm
politeness in her name. Aipreteni,!
wrote, she had commissioned me to say
she could not entertain the subject
of his letter. In a month's time she
would be glnd to see him. Only let
him fall into that trap, and she would
be safely on her road to Hugh.

How anxiously I waited for a reply,
I need hardly say. It came at last to
Ada (I had told her what and why I
had thus written). Ho would wait i
month, a year, ten years, if only at
last she could learn to love him. Tbe
bait had taken ; and we breathed again.

The 4th of February came, and
they started. ' I had engaged an ex-
perienced and trusty courier to travel
with them, and they took an old coofi*
dential servant to act as maid. I ac-
ci>mpanied them to Dover, and sa^
them on board the packet. Before ic*
started Ada took me aside.

'•John.'

For the first tnne and the last ah^
calKnl me bv my Christian name.

- Ye*. Ada.''

** Will vdu keep this for my sake, ic^
oaso wo nover meet again ? and re-^
momlvr. oh remember, that I shair -
n I ways ohorish you as the dearcs ^
friond I ever had !"

She took my hand and slipped o:X
mv tiapi'r a twisted circlet of gold, i^
wUioh one single stone was set, en^
era von wi;h tho word ** Semper." Oi
l,os th.*n? now. ii will lie there when
ani in my cra%e-

*- 1 will ke^p it for erer mod eves:^
Ada,"

Unconvicted; or. Old T%in7ide^9 Heirs.

One ki£B I took fh>m her uplifted
tearful face— that too the first and last ;
and praying Grod to bless and guard
her, left her. Until far out at sea, till
the last faint speck of the departing
vessel had disappeared beyond the
borixon, till daylight had verged into
the grej of approaching night, and
shore and sea and sky were all blended
in the 'thickening gloom, I watched
from the desolate pier-head, with the
winter wind whistling around me, and
the dashing spray, the roaring waves,
beneath. O Ada, fare you well ! I
have looked for the last time on your
fair loved face, for the last time gazed
into your tender eyes, for the last time
pressed your kindly hand! Is it
"^ worse than foolishness" now to kiss
this little ring, and hold it to my heart
to still the dull pain there ? See now,
as I write these lines my eyes grow
dim looking back to the hour when I
lamed away from that distant view.
Not on earth, Ada, shall we meet
afl^, but in the better land, ^the
land beyond the sea.^'

Two months had passed away since

tbej had all gone, — Hugh, Mrs.

Leslie, Ada. By this time they had

reached that distant land for which

[% were bound ; and I sat one even-

i^ in April by my solitary hearth,

^ith my books and pipe by my side,

^ little Dandle, Hugh's dog, lying at

^y feeL I had begged hard of Ada

^0 leave him with me. Both my clerks

M long since gone home, and office

^ours were past, when a sharp double

l^Qock came at the outer door. I went

^d opened it. A man rushed in,

fook the door forcibly from me, closed

^f« and then seizing my hand wrung it

^1 my arm ached. It was Inspector

*^ Found itP^ he cried, flourishing
1^ hat in the air. ^ Hurrah I found

I thought he had been drinking ; and
"J^^gu^ hold of him by the collar of
^ coat, I drew him into my room,
^i^ sat him down in a chair.

<> What the denoe is all this about ?

What have yon found? CanH you
speak P' I cried, giving him a shake ;
for he had <mly flourished his hat again
in reply to my first question, and cried
"Hurrah!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Kavanagh, but
I'm beside myself to-night."

" So it seems," I answered drily.
" What have you been drinking for ?"

He was sobered in a moment.

" I've touched nothing but a cup of
coffee since this moraing, sir."

" Then what is the matter with you ?
What have you found ?"

"Mr. Kavanagh, Pve found the

wiar

<* Nonsense I Where ?"

" In the house in Wimpole streeL
Do you recognize this, sir ?" he said,
drawing a document from his breast-
pocket, crumpled and dirtied.

" Merciful heavens ! it is the will I
drew up I"

" You could swear to it, sir 1**

" Yes, ten thousand times yes !" I
had it unfolded and laid before me.
There was the firm, bold signature of
old Gilbert Thomeley ; and below the
crooked, ill-formed writing of John
Baricer, footman, and Thomas Spriggs,
coachman. In the comer the date,
and my own name which I had signed.

"In the name of heaven, where
and how did you find this, Keene ?"

"In the housekeeper's bedroom in
Wimpole street, ^concealed under a
loose plank in the floor. You know,
sir, I have had my thoughts and suspi-
cions for long; I have watched and
waited. To-day my time came. The
house is being done up. The plumber
who has the doing of it is a friend of
mine. One workman more or less
made no difference : I have done odd-
er things before than use the white-
washing brush. I have bepn in that
house for the last three days, and to-
day I whitewashed the celling in Mrs.
Haag's bedroom."

"I understand. And searched it
besides ?"

" Just so, sir. She had done it clev-
erly ; but Tm her match in cunning.
I found the plank that had been dis-

100 Ify SoUUer. *

torbed, and I found ihe will under it ; sir, yes,'' he said gravel j. ^Aod

and here I am." there's another and a worse crime thao

A text came to mj mind, — ^ Be stealing her master's will that Tm feap

sure jour sin will find jou out;" and I ful she's guilty of."

repeated it half aloud. ** You mean the murder ?*

The Inspector heard me. "Yes, "I do."

VO U OOVCLVMD B OUH KSZT.

MY SOLDIER.

" Deab heart," he siud, " I love you so,

I dare not ofier you my love
Til] passion purified in woe

Shall worthier ofiering haply prove.

^ Then let us part. Mere absence is
To love like mine enough of pain,

As presence is enough of bliss ;
So welcome loss that leads to gain.

" Yes, let us part. The bugles call,
For Grod and you I draw the sword :

Your tears will bless me if I faU,
And if I live your kiss reward."

He said, and parted. Long I staid
To watch while tears would let me see,

And lon<rer, when he vanished, prayed
That God might bring him back to me.

Ah me I it was a selfish prayer
To rob him of the nobler part ;

And Grod hath judged more wisely. Bear
His judgment humbly, bleeding heart !

Alas I I know not if I sin ;

In vain I wrestle with my woe.
In vain I strive from grief to win

That loAIer love he sought to know.

Mine is a woman's love alone —
A woman's heart that wildly cries,

" Oh ! give me — give me back my own,
Or lay me where my soldier lies !"

D. A. C.

Divaro§ Legi$latiim-*in ^Cormeciicut.

101

DIVORCE LEGISLATION IN CONNECTICUl?:^-

The deadly and destructive epi*
demic of divorce legislation has crept
throngh oar social system with such
stealthj and noiseless advances, and
the Catholic community is so com-
pletely free from its contagion, that
we were startled at the facts displayed
in the able article which has suggested
oor present comments. Connecticut,
it appears, stands pre-eminent among
^ states for the facility and frequency
of divorce. Mr. Loomis says " that
the name of Connecticut has become a
i>&iQe of reproach among her sister
states, with a shameful notoriety sur-
passed by only one state in tlie Union."
^"^erertheless, many, if not most of the
other states, are entitled to a fair share
^^ the same reproach, having admitted
the same false and ruinous principle
into their legislation. We confine our
"^nwirks therefore to Connecticut,
^et«]y because it is a sample of the
^^^te of things generally existing, and
^^^cause we are furnished with the
Authentic statements which are cur
Necessary data by the principal periodi-
^ published in that state.

These statements are, briefly, that
divorces are granted by the Superior
Courts, under the statutes of the Le-
gialatare, a vinculo matnmanii, leaving
hoth parties free to marry again, for
the following causes : 1. Adultery;
^* D^rtion; 8. Habitual Intemper*
Vice; 4. Intolerable Cruelty ; 5. Impris-
onment for Life ; 6. Infamous Crime ;
7« *^Any iuch miseonduct as perma*
>t«nt/y destroys the happiness of the
pttiti(mer and defeats tie purposes of
tfe marriage relaiion** Moreover,
that within the last fifteen years 4,000

, ^DlrwM L«iUlatloti la Oonneeticat. By Rer. H.
lM9k, Jr^ Nortk MftiiehMter, Ooon. An Article
h Hm New ln^AiMl«r, for July, ISSOu

divorces have been granted, of oq^d for
every twenty families. To this" we
add the further statement that, more
than one-fifth of the population being
Catholics, who never ask for these di-
vorces, the proportion is increased to
one married couple out of every six-
teen Protestant families.

These are the demonstrated facts in
the case. And, in addition, we have
the testimony of Mr. Loomis, published
with the sanction of the editor of the
New Englander, that the courts
despatch these divorce cases with the
most shameful levity and haste, in
many cases without any due notice
having been given to the respondent,
and without any dose examination of
witnesses.

Mr. Loomis says :

" It need hardly be matter of surprise, in
these circumstances, if a citizen of the state
of Connecticut, entitled to the protection of
the law in his most sacred rights, should
chance to return from a temporary absence
on business in another state, and find that in
the meanwhile he had been robbed of wife
and children, and of all which, for him, con-
stituted home, on evidence which would not
be sufficient before a,n j jury in the state to
take from a man property to the amount of
five dollars, or even the possession of a pig ;
and to find, moreover, that both wife and
children have, by the authority of law, been
placed beyond his own control, perhaps in
the hands of one who has oonspireid and paid
for his ruin. The case supposed is not
wholly imaginary. There is no reason, so
far as the administration of the law la con-
cerned, why it should not be frequent ! In
many cases the absence of the respondent is
assured by pecuniary inducements, and in a
yet larger number it must be confessed there
is no opposition, because there is a common
desire to be free from a burdensome restraint.

" It is doubtless true that, in the main, our
courts have held themselves bound at least
by the letter of the law, though their deci-
sions are often hurried and bused upon

102

Divorce LtBgUtation in Cimn^cHeuU

wholly unsifled evidence. And^ yfi lax as
are ev«ti the terms of the pcrSetit'law, It is
difficult Ui €Oneeiv€ how 80oi« of ^he di'creei
of itivorce which have been granted during
the past five jears can 'oe' brought witliiu
the hingujige of th^ ^-called * omuibua
etaiiso,' Whof shnlf ve say of such ease** us
theac, fur instunoe^ in whieh, in the western
part of ih^ stJite, a man and womnn eame
into court ^ifh tue confession thikl they had
eutereii into tlie bondiS of matrimony at tlie
mature a^e of threescore and ten, but that
now.^ af^ throe weeka* €Xi>erjence^ having
Iwcooie convineed of tlidr fully, they desired
felief* from the court; or in whieh, after
having failed to prove l«gal desertion, the
coun(«<-t «i){npj]y stated \\\% ability to pruve
;iUiat the hujbftud, fron^ whom divorce wa«
Ou^htf had called hia wife by an opprobrious
pilhetf too tUc and vulgar to be repeated \
or in which tiic eole plea made was that the
pftHles lliemselvca had agreed through their
coim»el iJiat a divorce should be had. And
yet in each one of the^e eriHe!*, we are credibly
hiforroed, a decree of divorce wa^ actually
granted. Would not all ibie tend to show
that the admlniiitmiion of tio bur can be
wliolty Iruwted to a court which is private in
its proeeei lings, uriwatche<l in it* purity, un-
guarded in its power, with no barriers jigahist
abuse, and in which »uitii are practically con*
teaied only when property or reputation are
tottiAently at stakr^ to induce, in one caac in
•l«veii, A defence V

Comment on our part seems liardly
neccBsary. Thie page in the history of
one fitate^ which \m& its cofuitfrparU Iti
thoic of many others, is too black to
need or admit of any deepening lints.
As Mr* Ijoomis well remarks, *^uch
a complete subversion of the essential
nature of tbe marriage contract by le*
gislailon endangers the very institution
of marriage itself, and tends to reduce
it to legalized concubinage* An os-
tensible marriage contract, in which
both or one ol* tlie partiea intends to
contract for a union which may be dis-
Bolved whenever there ia ground for
comphiint or dissatisfat^tion, i^ not a
marriage. So far, iberefore, as the
idea on which this iufamous legislallon
is based becomes common, so as to
underlie the matrimonial contracts
wbich are entered into, those contracts
are invalidated, and the institiitioQ oX
Christian marriage is abrogated* This
18 sapping the foundations not only of
the Cbiistian moral law, but of onr
fiivil io^titutjoa^ utid 0LK3lal oi^auisa*

tie diii
ig o n? J

agai4^H

tion. Tbe extent to which tbii <
has already spread reveals a
condition truly ahinmng. It indicates

much more than the discontent of ecr-
tain marri d persons with eacb other,
which is only a symptom of moriJ de*
pravation lying deeper and more wide*
ly spread in tbe community.

We are glad to see that §ome in-
fluential clergymen and laymen in
Connecticut are endeavoring to stem
and turn back this tide of moral e\*iL
and to effect a reform in tlie divorce
lawfl. What have they been thmkiiig
of during these past years, while diii
destriictive work has been going
Why have they not preached agasij
these infamous laws, written ag
them, agitated against them — in t
word, shown the ze4\l and energy in
a matter which concerns so nearly
the public and private well-being,
the very existence of the eommu*
nity in which they live, which tbey
have di 8 played concerning the re-
formation and improvement of man-
kind at large ? It ia useless to ask
the question now, for the mischief is
done* The only thing they can do in
reparation for their supine neglect, it
to work and agitate notv for a correc
tion of public sentiment which will
produce a refonnntion in public law*
Iliey will have all tbe influence of the
Catliolic clergy on their side, and the
support of tbe whole mass of Catholic
votei^ in any political measure which
may be necessary for restoring a sound-
er system *«f legislation.

The Catholic law, which denies all
power to any tribnnal, secular or ec«-
clesiaatical, to grant a divorce a rintuh
matnmonii for any cause wViatevefi
in the case of marriages validly con-
tracted and eonaummated according to
the institution of Clirifit, is manifestly
the most perfect protection possible to
the inviolability of marriage. Those
w^ho reject the auihority of the church
have no certain and indubitable basis
on which to rest the doctrine that m$ir-
riage is indissoluble* The author of
the article we are noticing does not
deny the right of tbe civil power to

A Smmner Sonrm.

108

dissolve the bond of matrimonj in
certain cases of grievous crlminaiitj.
The civil power is oonseqaentlv the
jadge of both the law and the fact, and
the clergy cannot pretend to exer-
cise any judgment whatever. They
are le^ therefore, to exert what
influence they can on public senti-
ment, in view of the demoralizing
and destructive effects of divorces
npon society. If there is enough
left of 90und moral sentiment in the
community to compel legislatoi-s to
restrict the concession of divorces
within the ancitot limits, a great good
can be effected in checking this gi-
gantic evil. This is all that the Pro-
testant clergy can accomplish, and their
only means of doing it. They cannot
impose their interpretation of Scripture
or their ecclesiastical laws upon the
state. Nor can we expect legislatures
OT judicial courts to take the New Tes-
Uunent as their code of laws, to inter-

pret its meaning, or embody its princi-
ple j in statutes and decisions. On
Protestant principles, the doctrines of
Christianity can be applied to legisla-
tion only as they are absorbed by pub-
lic opinion, which sways the minds ot
those who make and execute the laws.
Therefore there is no remedy in thi-»
case except the one we have indicated,
namely, to form a public opinion on the
deleterious effects of the divorce laws
upon society, and, as far as this motive
is still available, their contrariety to
the spirit of Christianity. If a word
of advice from a Catholic source
can be received, we counsel the Pro-
testant clergy of Connecticut to lose no
time before putting all their energies
at work to save theu: state from the
moral desolation which threatens it;
and the respectable lawyers to do
something to wipe out the stigma which
attaches to their profession on account
of these infamous divorce laws.

Tiem St. James* Magixln«.

A SUMMER SORROW.

She began to droop when the chestnut buds
Shone like lamps on the pale blue sky ;

She fadeii while cowslip and hawthorn blew.
And the blythe month, May, went by.

I carried her into the sun-bright fields.
Where the children were making hay ;

And she watch'd their sport as an angel might-
Then I knew she must pass away.

With the first white roses I decked her room,

I laid them upon her bed ;
Alas ! while roses still keep their bloom,

My own sweet flower lies dead !

I felt that the parting hour was near.
When I heard her whisper low —
* Take me once more, my father dear,
To see my roses grow.

104 T^0 Ili$e and Pra^M of BxAi,

** Take me once more to the eunny pool
Where the dear white liliej* sail^
And below their leaves^ through the crystal depth.
The buds lurk mildly pale.

** Take me once more to the watei-fall,
Thut seems blithe a^s a child at plaj ;
Whei-e the ivy creeps on the mossy wall,
And the fern -leaved kiaa the spray.*

So I bore her along through (be summer air,
Atid i^he looked with a dreamy eye

At the bmok, the pool, and the lilies fair.
And she bade them all good bv'c.

Kext day my darling's voice was gone t

But bt^r yearnin;^ spirit-eyea
Told how she longed for a namelejss boou»

Aud love made my gues&ing wis«,

A*raia I bnre ber beneath the trees,
W fie re their soil trreen shadows lay ;

But a darker shadow stole o'er my ehild^
Aud at sunset sbc passed away 1

THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF BOOKS.

IE manuracture of books bus
rown from obseure and insignificaot
egianiags, in a commercial poiat of
view, to what it has become in our
day— an industrial resource of great
imjjortance — and as such iuvitinof oar
attention to see and examine its
growlh. The importance of literature,
as the great agent for educating the
intellect for good or for evil, is obvious
to the most unreflecting ; but it is not
80 generally thought of, in I he sub-
ordinate or trade aijpect, as giving em-
ptoyment lo many bauds and licads,
that miglit not easily have found tlio
means of subaiateaee elsewhere*

Let us begin the study with the
brain that lays tlie eggs — golden or
leaden, addled or pro!itit% as the case
may be; thence to the publisher,
wboee province it is lo bring them out ;

onward to tbe press in all its depart-
meats, that feathers tbe offspring fof
flight ; pa?*5 out thence into tbe paper
mill ; and end with the poor rag-col-
lector of delicate scraps, for ** weari-
some sonneteers** and well-woven and
worn reviews. When you have rank-
ed your itrtns, and summed tbem, the
total will he found something few im-
agine. Then we may search a little
closer; and^ as we pass through the
bujsy department, it may strike us that
this peculiar work requires a peculiar
class, that might not have been by con-
stitution of mitid or body so well fitted
for other employments aa they are
just suited to this. Fir^t the author :
if we praise his head, he will not be
offended if we say Httle of his hand;
indited, his handwriting is not alwaya
of the besL The publbher miglit sue-

TJite Em and Progrtit af R}ahs>

105

ceed in choese «ind pickles ; but for the

wahlishing trade a corresponding intel-

Rgcnco is required^ he must be a man of

t&ct and discernment iu intellectual

taster and demands ; then compositors,

TeaderB, et hoc genus omne, should be

men of mind ; and the neat and dex-

teroos female can find work for her

liands to do, — trpe-setting, stitching,

cic, And thuiiy while they are minig-

krm^ to the spread of civilization,

dvili^alion repays them by finding a

place for them, where they may gain

lupport and comfort i& this working

world,

BookB, like the air which eurroundn
vi^ arc everywhere, from the palace to
ibe Immblest cottage ; wherever civili-
Wkm exists, and people assemble,
boob are to be &een. But, though all
bow what books are, all do not know
tbdr origin and development, and by
irhat process they have arrived at
their present pcriection. We there-
Tort venture to present a sketch of
their beginning and advancement, and
thetncaus by which they have become
ffich a powerful agency to forward
tbaght aud accumulate stores of
Wwlf^dge ever increasing.

Without atfectation of any erudite
^uhiiive knotvlcdge respecting the
<*rigin and progress of languagt* from
th** dm ftrtieulate sounds of Hie human
Toict to wordSf symbolic signs, hiero-
glyphic characters, letters, alphabets,
ttMoiptioDS, writings, and diversities
of liNigQe»» we shall in business-like
otuttier commence with the elementary
It materials of writing and book'
itttkiogt in the order of their use.
Stone, wood, metal, in which letters
*in; col with a sbaqi instrument, were
Ik earliest materials. The art of
'tWftbg letters on lead wiis known
tka the Book of Job was written, as
*p|«ant from the memorable sentence
^^''Oh, that my words were nowMvrit-
ten* that they were printed in a book,
Ihai they were graven with a pen and
1^4 in the rocks for ever ! * Sheets
rf lead were used to grave upon ; and
ifiKiiplione cut in rocks or smooth
in Arabia, where Lot is sup-

posed to have lived, have been dis-
covered* But even more primitive
materials were the barks and leaves*
of trees prepared for the purpose.
ShephenL*, it is said, wrote their sim-
ple songs by means of an awl, or some
similar instrutnent,on straps of leather
twisted round their crookR. Even in the
days of Mahomet, shoulder-blades of
mutton, according to Gibbon's account,
were used by the disciples of Mahomet
for recording his supposed inspirations.
The introduction of papyrus from
E£^[>t into Greece produced great
results, in increasing ihe diffusion of
writings, and making books known by
many for the ^ist time. Previously,
the Greeks had used the materials
which we have enumerated. Vellum
was brought into use about two cen-
turies later; but not commonly, on ac-
count of its brittleuess. Its intraiuction
is attributable to a curious int^ident,
remarkably illustrative of the fnct tiiat
the protectionist system was acted U|mjq
at a remote age, when |M>lihcal
economy was not underelood, and the
good effects of free trade were unap-
preciated. Ptolemy Phiiadelphus (B.C.
240, to whom Ihe Septuagint ver-
sioji of the Hebrew Testament is due)
haci prohibited the exportation of
papyrus from Egypt, to prevent
Eumenes, king of Pergnmos, from
obtaining that material, in hopes of
preventing him from multi|dyinj»^
MSS. ; for Eumeues» like Ptolemy,
ivaa a patron of learning, and fonned
libraries. This un worthy jealousy on
the part of Ptolemy was deservedly
defeated by Eiimenes, who ascertained
that parchment would be a good sub-
stitute for papyrus. This far lesa
abundant material was, however, used
before ; but Eumenes so improved the
proceed of its preparation, that he may
be almost termed the inventor of parch-
ment. Vellum — the prepared skin of
a calf — probably was bixiught into use
at the same lime; the deep yellow
which both materials had was subse-
quently removed by some process

♦ 7he l*n«i Mbnrj nnd folio aro derived firom iU^tt^
tti« iuMr bark ; mid folium^ ft Unit.

fidoplcd at Romp, which made it while*
Tlie introduction of parchment k»d to
thi^ pr*^8ent form of books^ and it be-
came tho general material for writing
upon not long afterward* though Tel-
lum was employed in all state deed*
until the eio^hth century.
' Cotton paper was introduced into
Europe from China about tlie ninth
century, and Bupers^eded parchment*
Document.^ in cotton* of that period,
including diplomas of Italian princes,
have been pi-eserved in foreign muse-
ums.

The first maiuifaetory of cotton
pafier was established m Spain in the
twelfth centurj, also nlmost contem-
poraneously in France and Germany ;
but, il5 durability being questioned, all
state and otRcial documents for pre-
servation were written, or at least en-
grossed, on parchment or vellum.
Paper made from line a ragft is sup-
posed to have originated in Spain, and
to have been introduced into Engliiid
ia the fourteenth century. It hai? been
considered a pre-ernineally gno^i
material, with which none of the vrtri-
otii Bubstances used from the earliest
titnes to the present can victoriously
compete*

Dr, Fuller, a noted and quaint
writer of tho seventeenth century,
affected to detect national characteria-
ticB from the qualities of the {)aper
produced in the respective countries ;
e. ff*y Venetian paper he compared to a
courtier of Venice — elegant in stjde,
light, and delicate. French paper cor-
reapouds with the light-heart edness
and deUcacy of the Fi-enchman, Dutch
pafier, thick and coargie, sueking up
ink like a sponge, h m this re^jx^ct, lie
says, a perfect image of tbe Dutch
nice, which tries to absorb everything
it touehci*. Durability distinguished
English paper, a quality essentially
En glitch.

In 1749 the Irish Parliment granted
A sura of money to a JMr. Jay, for hav-
ing introduced the first paper fiu^tory
into I red and, wliich probably had the
distinction of anticipating England in
this respect* Be ibis as it may, the

first eminent establishment of tb« kinl
was not in opemtion in England until
1770, when a paper-mill was erectisd
at Maidstone, by John Whatman, itljo
liad acquired much knowledge in the
art by working at Continental fao
tories.

In the British Mu^^teum is a book,
dated 1772, which contains more than
sixty 6[iecimens of paper, made of dif-
ferent substances. The paper called
fools cap* so common in our use, derives
its appellation from the historical cir-
curastanees fallowing : When Charles
L of England tbund difficulties in rais-
ing revenue, be granted monopolies,
among which was one for niaking
paper, the water-mark of wdiich was*
the royal arms* Wlien Cromwell suc-
ceeded to power, he substituted, witli
cruel mocker}-, a fool's cap and MU for
tbe royal arms. Though this mark was
remo^ ed at the Restoration, all jiapcr
of the size of the ** Parliamentary
Journal" still bears the name of fools-
cap.

"VVlien books tlrst appeared is quite
uncertain ; for, though the Bookj of
Hoses and tbe Book of Job are tli«
most anpieut of existing books, U
de.*ms from a reference J^foses hai
made to them that there wcto earlier
ones. Among profane writers Hocner
is the most ancient ; he lived at the
period when King Solomon reignt^d so
gloriously. Four hundred yeai'S af^*
waixl the Ecattered leaves of Homer
were collected and reduced to the order
ill which we have them ; and two
bundi-ed years still later they were re^
vised and accented, so as to have be-
come perfect models of the purest
Greek — tbe noblust Uingu«ige in ihe
world. And, Greek words being so
remarkably expressive of the meaning
of the things or ideas which they mV9
used to signify, they are now uaed in
arts and Bcienoes as descriptive of the
subjects or things referred to; and
Tcry oWcn in a ludicrously pedantic
manner, esf>txnally among inventors of
patent medicines and mechanioiil in-
struments. But it is not within 1h<i
I'^ge of our subjects, or knowledge

7%e Sm and Progras of Booti,

107

is%-eti, io toncTi upon languag:e8 and
lure, atiihorshtp and authora, and
gradiial development and progress
lileraiy composition, bat simply the
subject of books, as bofon^ intininted,
18 Ihej have been presented to us, in
tfceir material development from age
taage.

Io a Dumber of the Comhill
Magazine there has appeared an ar-
ticle, ** Publishcre before the Art of
Printing,*' which pre^sents a very in*
texieating account of bookraakin^ in
ItaljT during I he Augustan agp* The
btralherfl Sosii, celebi^ated hy Honice,
bsued vadt supplies of manuscript
bcx»ks; fashionable hterature %ra3
eagerly lK)ught from Roman booksell-
ers; and, to Fupply the demand for
tbeaif §lave3 were educated in great
QQiBbers to read aloud to indolent la-
dies and gentlemen us they reclined on
QQfuobet* The copying of MSS. was
dooe pruidpally by &lave scrivenerj^,
»f whom a great ataff was maintained,
iu>i by their penmanship, books and
tK!t5[japers could be multiphed quick-
ly. FriMu the dictation of one reader
nvl writers a large edition, com-
1 . ely with the number of the read-
in;? pabUc, could be soon produced;
lu tome private lamilied readers and
Inmscrihers were employed in this
^f. The demand for school-books
f'Uj aUo great. As slave labor was
^ciy cheap, bookmaking was then
cwrespondingly inexpensive, yet au-
Ibnp* of liigh repututiou wei^ well
M by publishers. They received
oiuch larjjer sums than were given
I'JQg after the invention of printing.
Metid receivet] for his epigrams a
*tot remQDcration — Milton, for his
Pumdise Lodtt only 24A
Th<> number of what may be called
juiblished by the fathers of the
[ I to the first centuries of the

Cknitian era was great. Origen
tlWe 6,000 ; many of these were
iton& properly tnicta ; but his poly-
ifct ?eraion of the Bible (most of
viucb has perifbed)f and his great
^^k against Gels us, were laborious

vorb iudeed.

Of the writings of

the fathers generally (apart from the
Evangelic tsj but lew have descend-
ed to us. The Koi-au (partly com-
piled from the Bible) was composed
by the im[>ostor Mahotnet, in tlip. sev-
enth century. At tliat epoch there
were few hooka even in Kurope, the
most enlightened portion of our world,
and this literary darkness prevailed
three hundred years longer.

A curious eptsode in the history of
early bookmaking occurred in the
sixth century, Cornelius Agrippahas
related, in liis Vanity of Science,
that a contrivance had been invented,
by which the BcvcMtil parL*i of speech
in any language could be combined by
a system of circles worked in an in-
genious manner* The component
parts — nouns, verbs, etc. — come to-
gether fio as to fomi complete sen-
tences — a very convenient contrivance
for writers who are deficient in what
we consider eesentiab — intellectj learn-
ing, and invention. Sir Walter Scott,
in his Life of Swift, says that the
dean wais indebted for his entertain-
ing and witty satire on pretending
philosophers, as displayed in his Fly-
ing Island of Laputa, to the alxjve
hi?.toric4il fiici. The machine of the
Professor of Lagiido, in Gulliver's
Travels, for imparting knowledge
and composing books on all subjects
witliout assistance from genius or
knowledge^ wiia designed to ridicttle
the art invented by Raymond Tully,
the iadivtdtml referred to by Corne-
lius Agrippa. Variou-s iiuprovemenlni
on this mechaniml mode of composi-
tion were tried, but of course with ut-
ter failure.

During long periods of barbarism,
entire libraries of rolk and books
were destroyed by mthless and ignor-
ant soldier}^ as in GesJir's time, when
the library of 700,000 volumea which
had been amassed by Ptolemy was
burnt by Ciesar's troops. The great
library collected at Constantinople by
Cbnstantine and his successors was
burnt iu tlie eighth century.

The number of books written and
collected by King Alfred was exten*

The Bise and Progreu of BoqIcz.

Bi\*e, when we take into aocoiint tbe

extent of ijs^norance that prevailed in
Engkmd during Ihe niiitb cetiturv—
an amount which may be estimated
from the fact tlmt there was much
ditficLilty in providing a tutor compe-
tent to instruct the royal yon eh whon
twelv*e years old. Yet he, like his cel-
ebrated contemporary, Charlemagne,
"^*' ^ame eminent for lincouraging liter-
re, and for his high repute in eru-
dition and book-writing, when Anglo-
Saxon literatui*e was despicably low.
The extreme paucity of books in Eng-
land in the eleventh century may be
infen-ed from a mandate of Archblsli*
op Lanfrnnc to librarians of English
monasteries^ ordering them to deliver
one book at the cxDmmencement of
Lent to the monks in turn, and that
any monk who neglected to read it
should perform penance. Anciently
every great chutx,'h and monastery
had its little libmry ; aiid, as educa-
tion was almost entirely limited to ec-
clesiastics during the middle ages*,
few books and tranacribera were re-
quired.

The survey of the lands of Eng-
land called Doomsday Book, in two
volumesi was comtueneed by com-
mand of Wiillara the Conqueror, in
the year 1080, and completed in six
years. The book obt^iined its name
either from a room in the Royal
Treasury called Domm Dci^ in Win*
Chester, or from Saxon wonls signify-
ing doom or judgment, no appeal
from its reeonl being permitted. The
first volume is a folio, the second a
quarto, and both are written in ab-
breviated Latin ; the writing being on
vellum, strongly bound, studded, and
inclosed in a leather cover. A copy
of Magna Oiarta^ the great charter
of British liberty, granted and con-
firmed by preceding monarchs, but
re-enacted after a struggle between
the Barons and that wicked man.
King John, in the thirteenth century,
is preserved in Lincoln Cathedral.
There were twenty-tive original
Bealed copies of it written on vellum ;
one copy was sent to each English

diocese, and to a few special ptaoi$
besides. About twenty-fiTe baniQi
were present when tliis important doe*
ument was drawn up, none oT wbom
sirred it ; it was only attested by tbe
Great Seal of England* His majc9«
ty could not write ; and it may b^ ai-
sumed that his twenty-five nobles wore
equally illiterate. If any of them
were penmen, it was Tcry coortie^
like on their part to decline doing
what their king was incompetent to dot

Wbether Italian or Irish maoQ*
scripts were tbe earliest in which or-
namental letters were employ ed, is so
undecided question. The fine?it speci-
men of the illuminated is the Book of
Kells, of die fifth or sixth centuiy.
This beau ti to I anliquc h preserved in
the library of the King's College,
and is thought to surpass in mtnate^
nei53 of finish and eplcndur of decoj^
aiion the famous Durham Book* or
Gospels of Lindisfarne, which, though
probably executed in the north of
England, is cla/'^ed among Anglo*
Ilibeniian books, bcicause Iri^h litrr-
ature was more advanced than Eng-
lish in the fifth, sixth, and seventh cen*
turies. If this beautiful art of illaio-
inating originated in the East, "^
reached its perfection in tbe wc*t of
Eurof>e. In the British Muscat^
there is a copy of the Gosi>els ex^'
cuted at Aix-la-Cliapelle in the eighth
century, known as ihe Golden Go^^
pels, the entire toxt being in gold, o**
white vellum.

We are now to touch upon the vm^
riety and forms of books or bookling-
— if we may invent a name — afte
the art of printing was dij»covere<f^
about the middle of the fifteenth ceo-*
tury — a subject too familiar to occupy^
any space here for details as to inven-'
tion or progress.

Chaucer expressed in rhyme the in-
convenience of being obliged to correct
every copy of his works after the
scrivener s hands ; he did oot antict-
pale the invention of types in a coi-
tury afterwards, and the emploj-
ment of readers or correctors of tiie
press.

The B%S0 and Progrem of Booh.

109

I shall have the precedence,

much from their high rank in
Tj importance, but from their
oitj and pioneer character in the
[i of uninspired literature. The
iaos, who studied astronomy and
logy, noted the signs of the sea-
and regulated their field occupa^
by the direction of their almanac
rs, who were their wise men;
would neither sow nor reap, nor
their beards and nails, without
Iting their almanacs ; they intro-

1 their rules of practice into Eu-

A German named Miiller con-
;ed an ahnanac in its present

suited to general writers. An
sh writer who called himself Poor
I, published long ago an almanac
^ble for coarseness and eccen-
\ The following are sfecimens

style (they recently appeared in
ilic journal) ; we present but a

OS Cvtar did th« Britons Ume ;
iqiieriog WllUam Into England came ;
iTO UontroM was basely murdered ;
f Ber. Dr. Stewart lost his liead ;
I plague raged verj sore at London ;
HMO Immt, whereby many were undone ;
» crown on Ann«*s head was placed ;
\ expired, and George's head it graced."

nch for historical records. There
a calendar among his monthly
▼ations:

ory— The gardens now do yield no posies,
And men in cloaks muffle their noses.**

lit— A toast we plunged in March beer,

Being sugared well, and drunk up clear,
Rerires the spirit, the heart doth cheer ;
And, liad for three pence, is not dear."

OS old Robin shamefully pecks at
air sex. In his notes on April
ijs:

rben let yoimg people hare a care,
iot ran their beads in marriage snare ;
k woman's tongue is like the ocean.
It ebbs and flows in constant motion ;
But yet herein a difference grows —
Ber tongue ne*er ebbs, but always flows."

booklings have multiplied more
almanacs : we have now clerical,
ieal, naval, military, aye, horticul-
I, down to children's almanacs ;
amongst these almanacs there is
entitled Almanac des Voleurs,
Ratines swarm, ranging from the

highest class of religious, literaiy, and
social-scientific, not forgetting indttt^
trial, subjects, to the most common-
place and trifling matters. The Gen-
tleman's Magazine is stated to have
been the first of the class published in
England. Of reviews we have a long
array, distinguished by every shade of
uniform and badge, and from them a
vast amount of useful and pleasurable
information is obtainable. This class
of books first appeared in the middle
of the last century; one entitled the
Monthly Review was the first pub-
lished.

The first newspaper was published
in the time of Queen Elizabeth — The
English Mercury, of which the ear-
liest number is in the British Museum,
and bears the date 1588. In the reign
of Queen Anne there was but one
daily paper, which made a slow and
tedious course of circulation ; whereas
in these days newspapers are every-
where, and the leading ones convey
intelligence of the whole world's trans-
actions, and issue admirable essays,
afibrding information on every subject,
and this within a marveUously short
space of time.

Books are so common, that it be-
comes necessary to be careful in the
selection of them. Tares and wheat
will spring up together ; the earth pro-
duces noxious weeds with the most
excellent fruit. If, then, we do not
reject the tainted and imperfect grains,
a diseased crop is the result. It can-
not be expected in this age of inquiry
and the rapid progress of learning,
that all books should be of an improv-
ing character, but the good greatly
overbalance the eviL "This advan-
tage," said Gregory the Great (writing
so early as the end of the sixth cen-
tury), ** we owe to a multiplicity of
books ; one book falls in the way of
one man, and another best suits the
level or the apprehension of another ;
it is of service that the same subject
should be handled by several persons
after different methods, though all on
the same principle." A superfluity of
good books 18 beneficial ; IwouldiUus-

110 iMcifw JKifttlmiit.

trate this proposition thus : The Nile fertilized : so the great folios in their

as it flows fertilizes a vast tract of land; wide expanse of text i^nd margin

but if it were not for the streams and have their important use, while the

rivulets that are artificiallj constructed streams and rills which issue from the

to diverge from it, in oixler to draw parent flood are illustrative of quartos,

from the main supply of water some octavos, duodecimos, 24mo8, and 48mo0,

portion of the alimentarj matter it that refresh and enrich minds innu-

contains, other tracts would not be merable.

OBIOIMAL.

LUCIFER MATUTINUS.

From a heart of infinite longing the youth
Looks out on the world ;
" Where, spirit of candor — where, spirit of truth,
Are thy banners unfurled ?

" chivalrous chastity ! lovely as room.
The dew on thy helmet, I hail thee afar ;
Like Lucifer, beautiful angel or" dawn,
I wear thy deep azure, I follow thy star.

^ Not mammon, not lucre ; though wl)ite as sea-gulls
The broad sails I watch studding ocean*s blue deep,
To droop their gay pennons where dreamily lulls
The tropical breeze, and the lotus-flower sleeps.

** But glory! but honor! the joy of a name

Not written on sand ; which for ages will stir
All hearts that are noble, or kindle the flame
Of devotion consuming the rapt worshipper.'*

Thus from heart of infinite longing the youth.

Looking out on the world,
Cries ever, ** Woo wisdom, woo beauty, woo truth :'* —
The sordid world, jaded with care, answers : •* Ruth
Waits on thy wild dreamings, O turbulent youth !'

And with laughter uncouth
Mocks life's fairest banners in brightness unfurled.

O heart of the ostrich ! above its own graves
Of innocent hopes the world every day raves,
And moans, with a pitiful droon of despair,
OVr candor and honor, once blooming so fair ;
Yet treads, with a wanton » un pitying scorn.
To earth every sweet aspiration of mom.
True mark of a poul to infinity born ;
Or leaves, to the chance of the desert, the good
Which God, at creating, charged angels to brood,
And martyrs have guarded with rivers of blood.

TravelUre IWm.

Ill

TRAVELLERS' TALES-

3rld has been so thoroughlj
DOW, at least in all but its
ge and inhospitable recesses,
ms not unnatural to suppose
dlers should find it Card to
ers to their tales of sight-
1 adventure ; and that wan-
to foreign lands should no
im it a part of their duty, as
beir peregrinations are over,
ome and write a book about
^e can*t expect any more
los or Mendez Pintos, unless
mturous spirits have a mind
beyond the regions of the
d Victoria Nyanzas, and risk
I among the dirty tribes of
frica, whom even Mr. and
er were unable to reach ; and
ts little differences of man-
customs, there is after all so
teness in the untamed negro
e doubt whether anybody will
\ a journey worth his trouble.
: the source of the Nile has
d and the costly and useless
f the North-west passage has
ed, there really seems to be
ery new or startling which
ded to geographical science.
1 that there is, and undoubt-
\ long will be, a certain fasci-
every well-told narrative of
Listant country, even though
features of the story were ia-
XA before. We know that a
ilumbus can never come home
L across the seas, with news
lected continents ; that old
looi^ed all the bounds which
us in, and disclosed long ago
w worlds which he once con-
st we like to travel again and
r the lands we have already

passed, to take a few repeated peeps at
the inner life of distant peoples, even
though their domestic interiors were
long ago laid open to our inquisitive
eyes. Now and then, moreover, it
does happen that a traveller has some-
thing new to tell us, or at least some-
thing which has not been told often
enough to be familiar to all the world.
For example, in the spirited Sketches
of Russian Life* which we have lately
received from an anonymous hand in
England, there is, if nothing very new
or surprisufig, at least a liveliness and
an air of novelty which are almost as
good. The writer is an Englishman
who spent fifteen years in Russia, en-
gaged in business pursuits of various
kinds, which brought him into contact
with persons of all ranks and condi-
tions, and led him long journeys back
and forth across the empire — now in
the lumbering diligence, now in the
luxurious railway train, and many a
time and for long distances in rude
sledges across trackless wastes and
through feariul snows. In some parts
of Russia there are seasons when the
mere act of travelling is a perilous ad-
venture. Li March, 1860, our author,
in company with a Russian gentleman,
made a dangerous journey of two hun-
dred miles in an open sledge, through
a snow-storm of memorable severity.
They had been struggling for some
miles through drifts and hidden pits,
when the driver alarmed them with the
cry of "Volkal volka !"—« Wolves I
wolves P Six gaunt-lookiog animals

* Sketches of Rntilan Life befor« and daring
the Emanctpatlop of the Serfs. Edited by Henry
Murleff ProfeMorof Kngllth Llt«rature in UniTeriitjr
College, London. 16roo, pp. 29S. London : Chap*
man and Hall. FhUadelphiia : J. B. Lippinoott and
Go.

T12

JVaBeOert" Tales.

■

sat staring at thera in (he road^ a'lmut
one hundred jards in advance of them.
The horses huddled themselves together,
trembling in every limb, and refused to
move. The Russian, who is known in the
book only by the name of Fat-Sides,
eized a handful of hay from the bot-
tom of the vehicle, rolled it into a ball,
and handed it to our author, saying
** Mateh/* The Englishman under-
stood the direction, and as soon as the
horses, by dint of awful lashing and
shouting* we re forced near the molioulesB
wolves, he set fire to the bal! and threw
it among the pack. Instantly the ani-
mals separated and skulked away ivith
their taik dragging, but only to meet
again behind the «ledge» and after a
short pause to set out in full pursuit*
Tlic tired horses were wtiipped to their
utmost &peed, but in forcing their way
through a drift they had to come to a
walk, and the wolves were soon beside
them. The first of the pack fell dead
with ft ball I h rough his brain from tlic
Englisliman's revolver, and another
shot broke the leg of a second. At
that critical instant the pistol fell into
the sledge as, with a sudden joU^ the
liorset iloandered up to their bellies in
m doep drift : then they came to a dead
atop, and there was a wolf at caeh
side of the sletlge, tnnng to get in. The
Enghshnmn fortunately had a heary
blackthorn bludgeon, and raising it
high he brought it down with the des-
pernio force of a man in mortal ex-
tit&EiiitTy cmsh through the i^kull of the
anitiml on his side of the vehicle i
while Fa(-Sidea eooUy stufied the
sleeve of bis theepskiu coat down
Ibe moetli ef the sarage beasi oa
ibe other^ and with hi!» disengaged
bead eut ki tkroat with a laff^e bear
knMb* Tbe pistol was now ri*c«>vered

a in liiee to kill a fit^h wolf wbicb
ftelettel npon tlie neck of one of
dM bfOfies» Tbe aiatib, to^petber witli
tbe OM tba baa been ibot inlbe h|^
tanawaj*

After a dajrV tetntioii at Jatosliv,

« klbitka," or diligei
ther more comfortable ooiiTeyafieedini
the one they had lefl^ because it had a
canvas cover. There were oo lAorn
encounters with wolves, but penis
enough awaited them in the iiioir*
The fii-st day tliree of their bonet
died, and in sixteen hours, with tbj«e
separate teams, they accompli^heil only
twenty -seven miles* All along the
road they passed wrecks of *led*ei,
horses struggling in the drifL* and
men digging them out, and vehiclei
overturned and abaodonetl until spring*
OppoMe a hut in which they fouiid
shelter one night a cotta^ hml been
entirely buried, and the family were
not rescued until after four dsyi,
Ttiey were none the worse for tbiir
long imprbonment ; but the diggon
had eome upon a sledge with its horse,
driver, and two women frozen todestb
and buried in the drift. Three niootlffl
after this, when the snows disappeairtl
from two hundred to three hundred
corpses were found, oil of whom W
met their death in this fearful stonii
upon the Moscow rtwid alone.

The wretchedness of the inns added
a great deal to the sufferings of ottr
travellers. A Russian hotel m the
interior i^ the moet filthy of all filtb|f
plaeee. As ihe floors ait; never
washed^ tbe mud acd filth aceumelst®
to an inch and a half in thickni**
the walls arc black and fetid; 1i0**
rihle large brown beetles, called lar^
kans^ crawl in myriads over ever^j
things invading even the dL^hcs oat «^
which tbe traveller esUs and drinkJ
and tlie diitj deal tablet are ftirth
defiled with a diitj linen clntb.
pnblie rooQiB are constantlj filled wi
tbe olR»ieiTe odor of tbe oaftre t
baeco^ Tbe waiten mn all
dfeeeed in print trowsen and s«««^
tbe treweers sru^ed into kiig booc^
and tbe ebiHa hmm^mg mtside tF^
t a pulMktted band
le want eenpleHqg
TW bur, lOoe tliat of

"• twHu and parird to

TVaoeJhre {Tales.

118

lor trimmed. We are not
at our author preferred to
he horses and cows in the

tance from Jaroslav to
ibout 160 miles, and the
upied seven days and the
)f seven nights,
or made another journey,
i by his wiie and six
id an amusing English
I,** called Harry, who was
eking somebody down and
U'ty into all sorts of scrapes
)lice. They started from
d rode about 500 miles
lerior. Their equipment
two vehicles, called taran-

drawn by three horses.
^, and a good store of
sugar, sardines, brandy,
'ere stowed away in the
e wagons, and over them
straw, feather beds, rugs,
ontrivances for breaking
of the jolting. The pas-
ned on the top. Many a
1 no bed but the tarautass,
but what they had brought

Harry found plenty of
for his fists, as well as
muity in bridge-building
seful arts. Oace he de-
er, in the inn where they
Tula, stealing a bottle of
•m the medicine-chest. It
t punishment to make the
V a large dose ; but when
>f the draught began to
elves, the man declared
oned, and was carried to
while tlie travellers and
were placed under the
e police.

nTsoncra for nearly two hours,
from the hospital, fortunately
Rus8, came with a captaiu of
the captain of police tackled
^orant of the lanj;uage, aii-
a' (yef», yes) to everytlunj^, I
le doctor what had really hap-
orthy doctor having got hold
e, cried,

Poison ! file most excellent
larmacy. Look here, cajitaitu
ling the waiter) ' was t.ikiMi ill
VOL. IV. 8

with cholera, cramps, spasms, vomiting
here — mind you, here in this room — before
madame and mademoiselle. They run to the
next room, so does my friend here, a great
English my-Iord. What could they do^
But, sir, the case was desperate. Tliis gentle-
man ' (pointing to Harry) * is a great doctor,
accompanying my-lord and his family ; there
was no time to send for me. What does he
do ? He opens his great medidne-box-^look,
there it is — and gives the dying moushick a
great dose of apernicocus celantacus hepre-
calncos masta, the best remedy in the world
for cholera. I tell you, " Yea Boch I" there
now, that's the truth.'

** * But,* said the captain, * the moushick,
doctor, how is he?*

'' ' Ab ! the pig !' (and here he spat on the
ground in contempt), * I left the beast quite
well and sleeping. I will answer for him.
Come, capftiin, let us go. Poison ! That is
a good joke ! Come, captain. Safe journey.
Good-bye !'

" The police captain was satisfied, however
reluctintly. With two bottles of something
better than castor-oil, and a fee, which the
doctor might or might not divide with the
captain, I paid the cost of Harry's though t-
lessuess.'*

Having reached their destination,,
and purposing to remain in that part
of the country for some time, our
English friends obtained a house, and
went to housekeeping. The torment
they suffered from thievish and idle
servants is pitiful to read. The lower-
class of Russians seem to have no
more idea of working without an oc-
casional application of the stick than
a sluggish horse ; and an honest ser-
vant is the rarest thing in the empire.
()ur author began housekeeping with
four — a key -keeper (housekeeper),
cook, room-girl (housemaid), and
footman. The dishes were put upon
the table dirty, just as they had been
taken away after the previous meal,,
because it was nobody's business to*
wash them ; so a dish-washer was
added to the retinue. At the end of
a week it was found that nobody had
time to scrub the floora ; so scrubbers
had to be hired. Then another was
v.anted to wash clothes (though no^
body could be found who knew what
it meant to get up linen, and the
authors wife had to do it herself);
another to clean boots ; a man to cut
and fetch wood ; and another man. to

114

Thwelfers' Taiet,

split it and keep up the firt*9. Thus
in one week ttie eakiblishment had in-
ei^ased to thirteen stiulr^. Their
wa^e^t it is truo, were small, but iheir
pilferings were great. One day the
mxisler and mii^tross resolved to ox*
amine the eerviints' boxes. In th^^
first one opene*! they ibund a canvas
bag filled witii himp-?*ugar, pureelti of
tea and colFee, needles, pins, buttons,
hooks and eyes^ tape, laees, soap, eati*
dle^»eliildreTi*d toy», sealing-wax, ffens,
note paper, and a lieup of Bmatl
articles, all of which had bt^en Bloh^n*
Every box had been opened ift tarn,
and not one contained Ie.s5 tiian the
first, and many of tliem contained
more.

Dishonesty, as may be supposed, is
not confined to the lower classes, but
infects all mnks. The traders are the
greatest cheats in the world ; we were
going to say the preatest except the
government oliiciab ; hot these are
not extictly cheats, beeanse tbelr ex^
tortion is open and nnhlui?htn^»
When our author onee told a Russian
baron 'that Eajj^lish rnajristrates were
ineormplible, tbe assertion cammed an
incredulous Inugh, and a remark from
the baron that be coulil buy any coun-
try magistrate in Russia for 50
kopecks (nbont 35 cents)* Certiiinly
our friend often found it convenient to
prove their venality, especially when
Harry of the stronj^ arm had Wen
giving his fists a little more exereiije
than was strictly according to law.
Trade is a system of lying and cheat-
ing. The commonest purcha-sc can
rarely be made without a tedious and
vociferous process of bargaining* very
much such as goes on when a veteran
jockey sells an old horse at a ctjuntry
fain Our author had occasion to buy a
pair of boots and a portmanteau at
Tula. AAeroveran hour's wrangling
the prh-e wjis reduced fivain 48 roubles
to 1 6 , a nd t he hit t e r su m aft e r sva rd p i*o v-
ed to be about twice tis much an the
articles were v.orth. " How shame-
ful of you," said tiic buyer to the seller
when the transaction was eon»duded,
** to ask three tiroes more iban you

would take, and then ia tel
lies I'* »* Oh I** he repUed,
not rob your pocket. I at]|
It is all fair bargaruing/*
operations of comnierce»
noijsy, are at least no m*:
than the I'ctail dealing, Itii
remarked that profitably i
stand trading in Russia wou)
a course of many years' trsi
university teaching the prin^
piactjce of chicanery, bribd
gling, and lying. A rich |
St. Petersburg gave our autjj
deal of inform a tion about J
biisinei^s is carried on, i
with the government, esp^d
managed in a very curioa^
Some one is appointed by »
to draw up plans and spocifit
the work to be done, and t
'* upset price/* The eontra^
oftered at auction, and the 1q
der under this upset price \
As there is a tacit understaq
the successful competitor shol
official vsdio fixes the upsel
commission of ten per cefl
gross amount uf tlie contract,!
as a matter of course, lliat (
is always ridieul usly high, i
Smuggling is carried on *
tensively, not as commonplm
do it, across the frontier, btif
the custom-house itself* ** J|
said the merchant," at this p|
— a first-rate * grand' fitinj
wood, Had that instrumei
through the ^ Tamos hny* as
piano,' it would have cost me i
dred roubles, that is, fitleen |
your money. But, sir, I shipp
thrashing-machine — my child
certainly made it one — and ij
no duty at all ; machinery, p
Is the otdy thing duty free* |
expeditor his httle eommissli^
managed to convince the ej
otfic tah by what means I do «
inquire, that a thrashiug^m
was, and as such it paseeil/*
is the temptation to disho
strong, but honesty, on the oil
is fraught with great danger.

Trapellers' Thhi.

115

man, who was beginning basiness in
St. Peterabarg, imported a quantity of
plain glass-ware, the datj on whicb
was two roubles and twenty-five ko-
pecks per pood. He meant to pay the
duty in an honest, straightforward way;
bat this did not suit the custom-house
officials, who wanted their little com-
mission. They discovered by some
singular optical delusion that the plain
^^8 was Sill colored and gilded, the duty
being thus raised to ten roubles per
pood. Nor was this all, for the unfor-
tnnate tradesman was moreover fined
fifty per cent for a false declaration,
and his dear loss by the importation
was about $500. This and a few
similar transactions with the custom-
boose, in which he stood out for the
payment of just dues and no comip-
tkm, ruined him. There is no redress
for sach outrages in Russia.

We have no space to go into details
of the condition of the serfs, which
oor aathor represents as miserable in
the extreme. The stewards on many
of the estates are German adventurers
of the worst description, who cheat
tlieir employers, oppress the serfs, and
^ all that man can do to ruin the
Wttntiy. Many of the lower class do
Dot thoroughly understand the czar's
ukase of emancipation, and even those
^ho do understand what great things
^ does for them, show little or no gra-
|itade. That is a virtue of slow growth
^ a Russian bosom. Some of the
^8t land-owners anticipated the time
Bet by the decree for the abolition of
serfdom, and immediately began to
work their estates with paid labor.
The result was perfectly satisfactory.
Inafew districts, however, the publica-
tion of the emancipation ukase was fol-
lowed by tumults and disorders, and
iK)w and then the peasants took a
bloody vengeance on their oppressors.
Oar author witnessed one scene be-
tween a villanous steward and his
emancipated serfs, which came near
being tragicaL The steward was
«)08ed from his slumbers one morning
by a big strong mooshick, or peasant,
who acted as bis ooachman. Entering

the room rather unceremoniously, the
man bawled out, in a peremptory
voice:

" * Come, master, get up quick ! You*re
wanted in the great ball/

" The steward started at the unusual sum-
mons, and stared at the fellow in blank
astonishment, unable to understand what he
meant.
** * Come, I tell yoa; rise — ^you're wanted.'
** * Dog 1* roared the stewawi, almost pow-
eriess with rage — *what do you mean by
this insolence ? Get out I*

" * No,* said the man, * I won't get out.
Tou get up. They are all waiting.'

" * Pig ! V\\ make you pay for this. Let roe
get hold of you, you villain !' and he jumped
out of bed ; but as he did so he perceived
three of his- other men-servants at the
threshold ready to support the caichman.

'* * Oh ! this is a conspiracy ; but I'll soon
settle you. Evan, you devil, where are you ?
Come here.'

** Evan thus called—he was a lacquey —
appeared at the door with a broad grin on
his face.
" * Did you call, master ?'
"*Yes, villain; don't you see? I am
going to be murdered by these pigs. Go
instantly for the policemen.*

" * No, no, baron ; I have gone too often
for the Stan's men. We can do^itbout
them this morning.*

" * Come, come, master,* again struck in
the tall coachman, 'don't you waste our
time and keep the company waiting. Put
on your halat ; never mind the rest of your
clothes ; you won't need them for a little.
You won't come — nay, but you must.' And
he laitl hold of him by the neck. * Come
along!' and so they dragged their victim
into the great diniughall.

** There, sitting round the room on chairs
and lolling on the sofas, were all the souls
belonging to his domestic establishment,
about thirty in all. Pillows were spread on
the floor in the middle of the room; to
these the steward was dragged, and forcibly
stretched on them face down, with two men
at his feet and two at his head.

*' The coachman, who had been pretty fre-
quently chastised in former times, was ring-
leader. He sat down on a large easy-chair,
the seat of honor, and ordered a pipe and
coffee. This was brought him by one of the
female servants. When the long cherry-
tree tube began to draw, in imitation of his
master's manner he puffed out the smoke,
put on a fierce look, stretched out his legs,
and said, ' Now then, go on. Give the pii;
forty blows ! creapka (hard) I'

'* In an instant the halat was torn up, and
two lacqueys, standing at either side, armed
with birch-rods, slowly and deliberately com-
menced the flagelladon. The coachman told

116

uir the blows fts be smoked in dignity, *<>De,
two, thr<je»* and *o on to forty,

" * Now, then,' eald coach ce, * flt4>p.
Brothers nad staters, hare we done right ?^

*'*aight(' they atl i$aid.

'' * I« there one here whom be hfts not
bcftten?'

** * Are you satl&ficd ?*

** ' Then go all of yo|;L homc^ and leave thus
home. Not one tau$t remain, Heleane the
prUotier."

'' rp jiimpt'd their tyrant, littlo the worse
bodily for the beating he had got^ hut ho
WHS livid with rftge. Hit face turned green
und purple, ho ^allied hk teetb^ and «pac
oii hia rcbt'lliaua tl&yea. Speech seemed
pooc, and they nil l.iu}<hed in his face,

'* Master,' »aid the coachman, walking
^iflUftily towards tlie door, * we have not

rl you, but have given you a small taste of
'your own tr«Almcnt of m for many year*;
how do you hke it? We arc free now^ or
will be ftoon, and will not be beaten any
more tSood-bye; don't forget the stiek*
And tisten. It you whimper a breath agsiitii^t
any of us for tln» rnorning'a work, your life
\» not worth a kopeck two hour* after.*
K^ch tnade a ri'^pectful bow h» he or nhe
went out, a nil the tyrant woji lefl alone in
tiic deserted house.*'

Thil, liowever, was not tlic end. In
II short time ihe peasantry from a lonjar
dit^tance bejran to collect in the coiii-t-
jnrd. A mill bdnnginjr to the e^^tate
jitopped work, and it;* thousand hands
joined the githeriuj,^ crow d. The Bte w-
iird appeared atnono: them, and in a
terrible rii^} onlered tliem to work,
Thcj Bimply shrugjjed their shoulders
and made him no answer. He 8tmck
one of them with \m open band, and
the |>eAsant in return spat in the stew-
anfs face.

** The Roseiaa apH of contempt, the most
unpardonable of RtiftBian insult^ is unltke
any otlicr kind of spitting. The Yankee
wiuirt b a scientific afTair; Enghshroeu who
•moke short bUck jupeii in barit, on rail^.
Mid elsewhere, expectorate in an uncleanly,
iil tima y way. But with an intense look of
dttC»lAtion, OS he says *Ah ptg !' the
Ruaaiaii, with the suildenness and good aim
of a pittol i>hot, plunges a ball of spittle
dghl inu* the tkec or on the clolhc^s of his
auTersury, making a sound like tlie stroke of
A marble where it hiu. It is a weapon
alwap ready, I have iVequcutly !k?cn a duel
maintain vd with it for a eoni^iderablt} time
ftl short range.

'' Matt, having tbns thown his oonCempt,

TrmeUm' Taleg,

coolly leaned himiielf tip afainat tliv ffUdl

but the he had vvnm

been bt i • Istic insonir*

before b;j ......,_, .. .... ., ...^.i' -tn.^i u^

any remains of r<*»sou hb ra^ .^»

left hioi. Ue used hands an fn

crowd of passive and hitheri4» 4^1^ >^m\
and sealing Lite old sturost — MattV f:^tli<?p— ^
eofMiUjy; up the rood^ he ran and colUfe«l 6c
old m,in, dragged htm to where his son
stooi], Aud roared out hh« oniers to take Hat
devil into the stnn's yard for punishmciit

*' ' iHd devil V he said, ' you an: at tlu
bottom of all this rebellion, you atid jour bhh.
You f hall flog Aim ; and iHen I sbalt fiioko
hifn tiog *f*jn* <»o* pig, ui: : vT

"The old man, for tJu IV,

openlv disobeyed his* [} ''■

fohk'd \m arms acrr»s* h
gave the usual phrug, »\'
on the ground, ami said, '>'o, ^tcwai^ thii
is your work. Now, I will not/

^* * Dog ! devil ! do you refuse to o^
master f I will, if it is in? work, >
to punt!<^hmiiut myself

" Willi that he j'cl^eil tlic 9t:trost bv hU
lujturiunt while beard, and he^n ptdling him
towanls the iiett house, whiclL, t haw Bai4,
was the run^iistrate^M and the poll cc> station
The old umn re-d-itcd with all his might, and
in the ttrufjglf he fell, leaving a large mast
of grey or rather whitt- hair in the stewani*i
haudt*. The steward, finding he e<iuld not
pull the litanmt by nudn force, UfUjd his
fool, shod with heavy leather golo»hea, and
struck the old man twice on the hisad. Thu
blood immediately ran dowQ» Vp to thl#
moment the crowd of pcssanta, which limil
increased enormously, hu ' ' ax:-

tator^ of the scene ; l»ui 1 ii

mun's blootj gav*< the h.,, hf

their paileuce. Without a wi» nd

began tilowly to move and con^ ■♦.■l^

an>urul the sunward and htn ra3l«*fi othcioL
There mi^hi th^n hate been (ivo or sis
humlred ; 1 the numbcrii were in^

crca-^inji > (it, as the men cam« b

fiom the i-i-t .^M * r,ujk.s. A rush took |da««e,
and the centre space was tilled up with tlw
mai«s. The bleeding btanist was |iaM>«^i to
the otitxide. Tho steward was surrounded,
am! many hands were laid on him t do not
believe there had been any 1
design to hurt the steward, cor
all hai*^d him. Had he appli- >
given him lUat mor^iiug, and jii 1
the changed feelings and eiriuiu^i
the ?crfs, he mi>;hi have jjossed from among
them without further injury, hut hiw jMS-
siom* were nngovernalde, and hA was nU\w to
believe in the pos.Hihitity of any resistant
on the pari of the • : ' v f so

long driven. The ily

from one "ide to «ni>L!i i*

tiie p<Kir steward a Wit ; ;
peril of hia Utc 14y wintt' .

i-1'-

^io4

i.kd

. of

lhimlhr$' Ihk*.

117

to mo for help. I

^ . J the w'indow. Bv soiuc

extrmofdlnaTy effbrt he broke loo^e, wid
mwiii^ A ru«h And a spring to entch the hWL
H^ «inrc*H.Hied *o far, nnd two pdr of strong
irra* wffe tfyuig U» ilrag the fat hody
thrau^h into the rr>rtm ; but we were too
Ute, or mtbcr he wii» UK) heavy for tin. The
crowd tore hiro down, and held him fMl.
Then A voice WHS heard, dear and decided ns
U»i tif %T% officer giTin?? the word of eom-
ittKud — ' to the wttter T The voioe was
>Utiiri4**ii, A leader &nd &n object had been
wi»it4!id, and here there were both. Itisiantly
the order was obeyed. The crowds dm^i^iig
the ar*wrtrl Utt tl^rt front of my bouse and
UK»l r the lake.

♦' tajjh the court-yard down

lo { ih*j cotttm-miU, and C4iiie out

u(i I uf the Ukii, ju^t a^ the raging

on)^ 1 '•! «' r: _' a mat with a Urge

•lone iti U lo \\ '< neck-

''Aroatid tlu; u..„p..^ of the Uke the ice
vn to aome eatent broken, and their evident
itiitatlon mna to throw fabn in. We ran to
neet them, and if possible prevent the horrid
•CI t>f f<rtribution. But we were too late ;
ih« ^ u'd the part of the bank oeareet
ibii yf^A higher than the rett ; and
jttii «!!< n. i^ame panting up, we saw the
\ifiAf flf the steward swaying; in the liaiiils of
of t!ie men, and hoard the fatal
gdrcn oat by Matt: *^ Rm^ *iirtt^ tn^
two, three); then a cry of despair,
ife the yelling of ilie crowd ; then a
{^imiEe in the water; no^ two pluiij;e*. The
^1v^k mat, containing the heavy
L4 to ki^i'p the atewnnl down,
^ 'j'.in4 one; for aa the body
aJTi the stone fell from
\ aeoond or two before^
the spot where he came
Lred under the water for
'■ ' ---:—- •*^,rts

the

• ftn

..i- tl... Ki*,1

niat bug, drenched and
im h« !iti*k. There he
feel of the bankj facing
_' cnemief, 0«t*ide vras
[••ti:v ur liriu icf*; b»it belweeti him and
ii«n there mi^ht be thirty feet of deep
' Mf f«,/v liiVe dipping many
1 where he stood,
i:d hi* pwitioD^ and
Liakiiig up his mind to contend
wat^^r rather than with the
'ink. He had rabied
iiy or <Jolittnee, and
.. vi-Aj Ihe ice, when
»it him struck
■ wcrleas to hi?»
Abuiitrrf bui ti ».jlUn futt.^ile, struck
^immi Uifi h*>ad. He fell ngain under the
•tWr, and a^Sn reeovere^l hi?? feet ; but the
M8Mi *ae oow dMliing like hail about him.

The«erfB were aa boy* pelting a toad or frog
— and their victim in the water did look
like a great overgrown toad.

*' Saunderson and I had made several at-
tetnpis to be hcar*!^ or to divert the attention
of the people; but it was spending idle
breath : MIo away ; it h not your busbios^/
aotnc of tlie men said ; otker^^, more savage,
aakt^i how we would like the ^ame treat-
ment.'*

The contrivance by which the unfor-
tunate stewaitl wai4 n^Bcued frrjm his
perilous situation was so theatrical that
we can bartllj help «U8pecting that the
incidents of the story have been ar-
ratiged with a sharp eye to effect
The man's fiite seeme^l certain when
Qur author Cisptcd a 8lci;^li afjproaching
at a couHiderahle distance. No doubt
it contained young Count Fomerin, tho
owner of the estate. If a little delay
could be obtaini*d, the steward might
be saved. At this juncture our frieud
Harry interfered. ** I'll try." he ex-
claimed ; ** blow me if I don't. The
buffer^s a bad lot, hut I aha'n^t see him
killed ;" and with that he jumped into
the water, and was by the steward h
side in a moment. The noise and
8tonin«: C4?a^ed» for Harry was a prime
favorite ; but the mob was not to be
baulked of its venjreance, and after a
vigorous exehan*re of expostulationt**
in the courjie of which Harry made
several remarks that were more forcible
than polite^ the chivalrous Engl iah man
was puller! out of the water, kicking
stoutly, and the pelting was almut to he
renewed.

Just at thia moment the sleigh,
drawn by three magnificent greys,
dashed into tbe centre of the crowd.
Three gentlemen occupied it. Two
were in official costume. The third,
a tall, well'huilt man, ro»e, and threw
off \m rich black fox-skin cloak, and
the mob beheld, dr«3S9ed in the uniform
of a general, not the young count, hut
hia father, who had been exiled yeari*
tn-forc, and was thought to be liead.
He had now come hack, with an im-
perial pardon, prepared to resume
the management of his estates* The
stewanl wiw extricated from the water,
and immediately called upon to set-

tic h]s accoiinlj>. The old count bad
visited i\w eslatt^ birfore in disf^uisc,
and knew how it had l)€en misman-
aged. He bad witnofises and all ready
Icj convict the fttewaixl of peculation,
and the rci^ult was that the wretched
man was eorapelled to refund on the
^fH3t $750,000 of stoleu wcahh, and
then alio wed twcnly-four hours to
leave the phice.

The next scene in this pretty little
drnma was betWifcn the count and liia
serfs. He ealled them all to;^t*then and
told them they were free Irom that
moment. He did not jnleud lo wait
for the period of emaneipation tixed
by the nkaee. Moreover* be ^ave to
eaeh male peasant three aere.s of land,
tree of price, — parting thus with one-
sixtb of big estate. The wbol*.^ il3-
eembled multitude tlien went down
on iboir knees, and cried, "Thanks,
thanks, good count, iliustrionu master
— (ilod bles!? you !** And here, accord-
ing (o alt dnunritic rules, unless them
wan sonielxidy to hi^ married, tlie thing
ought to have ended. But behold ,
tfji grey*bearded peii^nnts, wlio evi-
flfUitly had no idea of propriety, Btep-
ped firrward and wanted to know
wliat tbey were to do witb their
i'ows? Thi*ee acres would be enough
ft»r garden and grain-tields, hut it
would not give them pasture. Would
not his exeelleney add lo his giil ? and
><o might God bless him ! Well, the
eount allot Jed tbem pasture for ten
yeai*s ; a!id then the tea grey-beards
advanced aguin, with the cry a Rujfisian
alwayfl raises when you give him any-
thing — *'prebavit" (add to it). Pas-
tuix; wj\3 very good, but how were
they to get fire- wood? *♦ If it plea.se
your liip:b-born excellency, add to
your gift firewood. Prebavit T' So
liii* high born exeelh-ney added lire-
wood ; at id the incorrigible peasant
stepped up again. " Prebavit I How
were they to get fish ? Would it
please hift high burn exeelleney to let
til em fi^^h in the lakes ?" There were
the ti8ual limnkk and prostiDtions
when this wu^ grfinted ; and then
^^pi-ebavit '' again ; tbey wanted some-

tlilng ehe ; but they did not get il,
and the meeting broke up. A Utile
while afterward our author revisited
the estate, and found that it had un*
dergone a marvellous change* Thf
village waj^ no longer a colleelion of
mud huta, but a thriving town. Thf
people were not like the same being)? ;
and there w^oa decided evidence of
the rise of a middle cla£^ — a cbw*
onee unknown in such places.

Our author gives us an obscun'
glimpse of a curious religious sect in
Russia called tlie starrin verra^ or ** oW
faith,'' of whose peculiarities be knows
little, and of whoso history be con-
fesses that he know a nothing at all
It^ members deem the pres»ent Rusiiao
Church an awful departure from !b^
primitive faith and [»raclice; deny the
em|>eror"s claim to be the head of tlw
church ; believe to any extent in
witclies ; fast, scourge t\-^-;
meet in secret, generally m ir

they are rigorously proscribt ij ; ii:\U'
the eslahlished religion of the realm a^
much Rs the old Seoich Puritam
hated prelacy ; and, if they had their
wish» would probably advance the Czar
to the dignity of martyrdom. It is
said that many distinguished person-
ages privately adhere to tbem, and
submit lo dreadful midnight penance*,
by way of compounding for the £in of
outward subservieucy to the modern
heresy. Peo[ile of the old faith are
distinguished by a grim gravity and
opposition Lo all dancing or Uglit
umusemcnt. Our author hada wotuau-
gervant of this sect, who was remark-
able for never stealing anything, and
for continually smashing erockerr
which she supposed to have Iwcn de-
filed. There was a community of the
old faith near his residence?* An old
wooden building like a Druid trmple,
set in tlie side of a hill among trees
and rocks, was pointed out to him as
the place of their midnight conventJ*
clej*. It was said lo he presided over
by a pries leas who never left the
temple by night or by day. A roving
fanatic, whom the writer eometiraes!
encountered in the village, coUectmg

TrmeUere Tak$.

119

peasants aroand him and shouting like
a street-ranter, was looked up to by
the sectaries as a prophet ; though he
was certainly not a very reputable one,
being oflen helplessly drunk, and not
very decently clad. He wore no cover-
ing for head or feet, even in the sever-
est frost. He carried a long pole, and
danced some holy dance, to words of
high prophetic omen. Our author
was rather surprised to 6nd that, thanks
to his crockery-smashing cook, he him-
self was commonly reputed a priest of
the starrie verra ; the big volumes of
the niustrated London News in which
he used to . read were supposed to be
illuminated Lives of the Saints, and
die little plays and dramatic scenes
which his children used to perform on
winter eyenings were looked upon with
holy awe as religious rites of dreadful
power and significance. He bore his
honors without complaining, and even
when the cook, on the night of a party,
broke all his best Wedgwood dinner-
set, brought from England at a huge *
expense, he endured the loss with
Christian patience : it was so delight-
ful to have a Russian servant who
woald not steaL

From Russian servants to Italian
brigands the transition is perfectly
natnraL Both are rogues of the same
class, only external circumstances have
made a difference in their modes of
doing business. An English gentle-
man named Moens has recently ob-
tained a more intimate acquaintance
with the robber bands of Southern
llalj than any of our readers need
bope to make, and has given us the
result of his observations in a very
curious and interesting volume.* Mr.
^d Mrs. Moens,- and the Rev. J. C.
Murray Aynsley and his wife, had
been visiting the ruins of Passtura, on
the Gulf of Salerno, on the 15th of
May, 1865, when their carriage was
stopped on the way home by a band
^ about twenty or thirty brigands.

*I^Uih TnTellera and lUlUn BriKandi. A Nar-
^n of Capture and Captivity. Uy W. J. 0. Moens.
^ a Map and teveral IllastraUon«. 12mo, pp. 8a5.
lev Tork: Harper * BroChen.

The ladies were not molested, but the
gentlemen were hurried off across the
fields, and through woods and thickets,
until nearly daylight the next morn-
ing, when they were allowed to lie
down to sleep for a short time on the
bare earth. As soon as they felt
themselves in a place of security the
band halted, and their captain, a fine-
looking fellow, named Manzo, got out
paper and pen and proceeded to busi-
ness. The two Englishmen were to
be well treated, provided they made
no attempt to escape, and on the pay-
ment of a ransom were to be released
without injury. The sum demanded
for the two was at first 100,000 ducats,
or about $85,000, but this was after-
ward reduced one-half. It was now
agreed that one of the two captives
should be allowed to go for the money,
and lots were drawn to determine upon
whom this agreeable duty should faU.
Good fortune inclined to the side of
Mr. Aynsley, and the reverend gen-
tleman set off under the care of two
guides. He was hardly out of sight
when the band was attacked by a party
of soldiers, and for a short time there
was a sharp skirmishing fire, in the
course of which Mr. Moens came very
ne^r being killed by his would-be res-
cuers. He was forced to keep up with
the bandits, ho\^ever, and the whole
party finally got away from the troops.
Whatever plans he may have had of
flight he now saw were futile. The
brigands ran down the mountain like
goats, while he had to carefully pick
his way at every step. The robbere
had eyes like cats : darkness and light,
night and daytime, made but Httle dif-
ference to them. Their sense of
hearing was so acute that the slight-
est rustle of leaves, the faintest sound,
never escaped their notice. Men
working in the fields, or mowing the
grass, they could distinguish at a dis-
ta:ice of miles, and ^hey knew gen-
erally who they were, and to what
village they belonged.

At^er four days of dreadful fatigue,
during which the captive and his cap-
tors all suffered severely from hunger,

TrcmUeri Tain.

Buicft the closenef^fl of ihe pureuit pre-
veiik'd litem from getting their usual
aupplies from the peasant*, our party
joined the main body of the band,

" On emeri^^n^ from tho trees we ?ftw' the
cuptiun and about twonty-flvt* of his* in^n
recUniug on t)ie gnuts in a \ii\'\Ay gUdc, sfur-
rouudi.id by larg« beccU- trues, whi«*e Imuri-
ttJit bnibch«!S swept the liif^n. ScviTal aheep
and go&tA were tetbereid near, cropping the
gmBs. The men, witU their pins in tlieir
handR, tbeir picturetMiuo costumes and rci'Iin-
tti^ pudtureo, the lordv light and checkered
dhade of the treeti, made u picture for Stilvu-
tut Rom, But I do notbehcTo that Salva tor
»sii, or any other man, ever paid a second
VUit to brigaijdii, however great his lovu of
tlie picturesque might be, for no one woultJ wiil-
iiigly endure brigmid life after one ciperience
of tt, or plii^ce hiinj^clf a aceond time in su^h
A perilous dituation.

"The bund all aroae^ and looked very
pleased at seeing me, for vt* had been sepaT^
ated from them aince the light on the 17th,
and they were in great fear that I might have
escaped, or have been resigned hy the troops*.
I stepped forward and shook hand»^ with I he
captain, for I considered il my heat policy to
appear ehcerful and fiiendly with the chief
of my emptors. Ue met me cordially in a
ready way, and asked me how I was. I suid
I wa« vefy tired and hungry, bu he immedi-
ately sent one of Ida ineu off, who returned in

few niiuutes with n round looi" of bread,

id another loiif with the inside cut out, and
fMhcked full of cold mutton cut Into small
p&doei &nd cookeil. I asked for i$alt, and waa
told it wa5 iii\lted» When cooked the meat
tasted deUcioua to me, though it wa.-* awfully
toogh, fur I had not had nieaC :Uucc luncheon
on Monday, in the temples of Fu^atum, l\jur
daya before, I ate a quantity, and then
asked for water, which waa brought to me in
a large leathern flaak witli a horn round the
top, and a hole on one »ide serving to admit
air, aa the water wa^ retiuiretl for drinking.
1 had observed a large lump of snow sus-
pended by a stick through iU centre, between
two forked stieks ; the water dripping from
it wafl collected in fla^ka, and then drunk.
There were two or three of these iaaks,
^he captain aiiked mc if I was satisfiGd. I

*wered * Yea/

** 1 was tlien told that there were two more
compaiiionsi for me. 1 was taken Uiron;;h a
gap in the tree* to the rest of the band, about
aorenteeu in number Here I found thoe>e
who were destined to be my companions for
th» ' .1 -^ .1 ^ young man about

U beard of a montii^a
gi , „ Ue Manzo'^ band, who

wm mtroduccd to me as Don Cice, alias Don
Franeeico VLi^oon ti, and one Tomajfiino, bid
coaain, a boy of fourteen years old. V shook
hands with thtokf and condoled with Uiem on

our common fate, which Don Frini

eeribed f*-' +..iri,j
one *ide,
The

lie.
of.

e\t»rptliij5

cut

We were ni iht top tit a high mountain, <
th^fly surrotiuded Ity hi^h fr
two ^mall gaps scrvif;
to each oiher, TJi*
wa« (pdte level Al..i,,i i.^n
on the side opposite to where J
was a qtm^tity of «now, frtjm i
the large pieces for drinking puq)o«es» I
saw five or six men bringing a fresh block,
which they had jus^l cut, and sbing on a pole.
It was now a little before mid-day, and they
were preparing a caldron full of pa^a («
kind of muearoni), which waa tvaniy by
twelve o'clock. Some was offered U> tui^
which I accepted. One brigand prfipo9«d
putting the pufa into a hollow lowf, but a^
at!jer brigand brought forward a deep cartlv-
enwaro di*«h of a round ahapr. I thou^
milk would be an im(>rovement, ao I osM
for tiome. Two men went to the goat^ anil
brought some in a few minuter. The /»3a^
was very clean and well cooke*!. What
with the meat and brea<l, and thia /joifiy, {
made an excellent dinner, and felt mtaeh bet-
ter. The jHssUi wn» all devoured in a few
minutes by the band, whocollecle*! round the
cahhja^ and dipped in pjmkjus and lingers,
1 hud now leisure to examine the men ; they
were a tine, healthy «el of fellows,

"Here the two divisdons of Khv t.ujsl iti-rc
tmited, thirty men under the eon .<>

tano Manxo, and twelve under 1 . o*

The lalter hail the X\\<\ pn.«oniT-, hUq hud
bivn taken on the Hith of April near the
valley i>f (rilToni, jit five o'clock In the aitcr>
noon, as they were returning trom nrrangin^
some aJl'airs cotmecieil with the denth of a
relative.

*' The amaller band bad four women wiili
them, allir«.»d like the men, with their hair
cut short — at first I took them for boy* ; ani|
all these displayed a greater love of'jewlwy
than the memberti of Manxo'* band. Thtj
were decked out to do me honor, nnl ..,,.. r,f
them woix* no less than twen i|

rings, of various slates and si • i,er

bandit at the same moment; othem tweniT^
aixteen, ten, according U* iheir wealth* ifo
have but one gold chain attiurhenl to a watch
waa considercfJ paltry and mejin, Cerlno
and Manxo hud bunches aa thick as an arm
«U5pendc»i across the (»rea<^U of tlirir waiH>
coat», with gorgeous linxicQica at caeh faal4^n-
ing. These weiv sewed on for security ; Ul-
tle bunches of charms wen? aUo attached In
c<m!*picuons p<i«iti(mB. I will now describe
the iinifnrma of rhe two handa. MansoV

band had Inti.- ii.l.ii<r.« .t- -

live color i

ctii of a cii

others in th«i brea^i tiuuide i

each aide guve Gntnmce to a

TraeeUer»*

'WO

one

Thia

^^Pl ^CKild lioUl ftnjthing in th« back of the
pinti4:ttL I h«Te ecen a piiir of troirserB^
l«-fi »liiri<s. thn^e or four pounds of bread, a

bit '" '■ — ■ ' -' ' •' ■■"''^■■* mt

on' tue

trii'-^'- ■---'- - ' -' '^ ' ''i^t*

tCHMKi ftt th« liiiCf but b&d gilt butluns dowa

ibe oeotre i'or show und or rmrnent t the

Ur^^t oo«s were stompeti wUI

blni«, ete. There were two

:eCB it tlie lower part of r

wure kept epftre cnt

iwilvr, ttnives, etc.; urt i

Icr otiea hi^er up, the watcb in

" prrctusion caps in the other.

A wu of dark blue clotli^ like tlie

which were eut in the onJioAry way.

'' " band waA very

aod trowsers

md the wtudt>

I rotirtd ttilircf

r. When the

»4^«; ut(w Lhcy oil had att«ched to

c-ollAnt, by buttonj, eaptnom^ or hood^,

T ■ i^n over the hcAd &t night or

!her is rery eoUI, hut most of

.., , .ucii lost in the wrMMJj*. A belt

three ini:he« devp, dividcri by two

\ to bold about fifty cartridges, com-

pkMd th« dnsss, wkdch, when new, w&» very

MaMookiits; and »err1cenldo Siune of the

ti' ' ' ' Tin was

I lie jKiw-

<1 . ... ;, .A [.. .^: of low.

V wu:S Utkea out, nnd, after

ml down the barrel, the

! V lot of 5lug;3 beia^

inwiih the tow on

! , , . , ^ ' ' ■ ijctiire at

^ tdaxe at

f , .li -.,.., n-iirfiUmee,

' ;mm the utiLurLuin

' I urn hitd rov'olveM,

Mn cither t« Htv lieiw Of the left-hftiid

>kH ftf* thf^tr jfif^lcfts ; they were secured

rnecksn, and fastened

the pistol Some

' fur human vic-

iMP!* with turn-

■^ the wearer!*

f>-mrd appearunee. Gay

round their neeks and

cuLton flhlrts made them look

vyh*m these w#re eleau, whkh

pf»fl

tin'

^^ :

sreil of watehmg the band, T
^ • •! Aj*leep. I aiept fur some

' a poor sheep wai drag<

r irc, killed, cut up, eookeii

^ tk i^t, ixud eaten« I muifit hare slept
Jtil ii««f fluiLfet, for when 1 awoke another
■•^ wia hicuijS brtMight forward, and I
•WiW t)i« process of killing and enuing
•plW poor N3Aat. Th.- ^in .r. iv^us t:iken io
mm! by two meii j»nd Antonio

9Knallj a«Uog aa t:^ ^^ of Uie baud.

*rilb*

Ooe doubled the fore logs of the sheep acroM
th«r head ; the other held the hetid back, in-
serting a knife into the throat, and euuing
the windpipe and jugulnr vein. It wa.^ then
thrown down and left to expire. When
dead, a elit was made in one of the bind lega
near the feet, and an iron ramrod taken and
{*a»»ed down the le<^ to the br)dy of the ani^
maj ; it whb then withdrawn, and the mouth
of oue of the men plaeeeg
on a tree, through the tendun of a hind-leg ;
the skin waa then drawn off the back (^me-
tiiijc^ the head wm ekioned, but this rarely).
TItc ekin was now spread oiii on the j^und
to receive the meatf etc , when eut ofl* the
body ; the inside waa taken out, the entraiU
being drawn out carefully and eleuned ; th<3e
were wound round the inside fat by two or
three whrj were fond of thi:^ luxury — Sentonio,
and Andrea the executioner, jj;enemlly per-
fcjrmiii<: thi-i operation. Tlu'^e delicaeiea^ aa
thoy were conii»idered, being made about four
inelu'!^ long and abuut one ineh in diameter, arc
frietl in fat or roasted on spii«. It waa sotne
time before I could biing myself to eat these,
but curiosity first, and hunger afterwnni, often
cauged me to eat my share, for I soon learned
it was nuwiee to refuse anything.

** While these two men were preparing the
inside, the other two were cutting up th«
earca*4. The breast was first cut off*, aud
then the shoulders \ the sheep was then cut
in half with the axe, and th^ the bo&es were
laid on a stump and cut through, no that
it all could be cut in small piece*. One man
would hjjld the meat, while unuthtr would
take hold of a piece with his kft hand aud
cut with his right. Aa it waa cut up, the
pieces would tn? put into a large cotton hand-
kerchief, which was isprend out on the ground ;
the liver and lung» were cut up Ln the aame
way; the tat was then put in the m/d*y«i,
and, when tliis was melted, the kidneyii and
henrt (if the latter had not been appropriated
by some one) were put in, cooked, and eaten,
every one helping himself hy dipping
hL* ftngeri in the pot. The pieces of liver
were considered the prizes. All the rest of
the sheep waa then put in the pot at once,
and after a short time the pot was taken off
the fire and jerked, so ai to bring the uutlcr
pieces to tlie t/>p.

"They liked the meat well cooked; and
when once pronounced done, it w»« divided
into as many ecjual portiona aa there wcrp
numbers present ; tne captives being treated
as ' companions * — tha term ibey always
useil in speaking of one another. I i^oon
found that the sooner I ptektni up my share
the better. If there wad iv) ^^1«^^■» .1. h
there toeing plenty for all, the fo^
divided, then they dived with ti 1 ,

122

7rat'€lien' fhlet.

wbc>«?**f?r al4} fuslCBt coming off best- I could
only «?ttt wlowly, having lo ctH iill the tuc«t
into ehiod^, R^ it wii^ ro toti;;li ; so I nlw^jra
took AS muoli iLfH they would \H rnt\ iind re^
tired to my lair, Ukc n do^ with his bone.
If 1 fiiiUhcnl thU before all was gouc% I re-
turned for morcf, it being nlways ntree:»5ikry
to eecure «» nmcU jw j«»ii?ilile, im otic vms
never atire when more ti>jd wrould be forih-
coming, nnd il i^ eonlrary to brig;and etiquetiti
to pocket foial when cjileii llius. When it
was dividcil^ I iiii^ht of course do as I liked
with my eliftre, but even then it wsn^ prudent
not to Allow them lo know that I had reserved
a stock in loy pocket, or 1 was cure to e<jmo
oif short on the next division taking pUoe.
The flkiti wiii now taken and stretched out lo
dry, and then u*jcd to islecp on/'

There were five women with the
band, nil Urf^j^cil jiisi hke the men,
except that ihey wore ccimets. Their
httir was cut short, and two of I hem
Ciirried ^na, the others being armed
with revolver*?. They had tio share
in tlie ransom-mouey, and were often
beaten and otherwise ill treated by
their lords. Donielhi, the partner of
Pcpino Cerino, one of the subortlinate
chiefk w'Hs u strappi ug youn^ woman
abunt nineteen ymrs old, with a very
good fiofure and Inind^onie features^ a
pretty fcmile, and splendid teeth. She
aad her liushaud were prodigious glut-
tons, and Pepino was eventually de-
posed from his rank on aceount of his
lawicds appetite* Carraiua, tlie eom-
paniot) of Giuseppe, was a good-natured
creature, who was ollen kind and gen-
erous to the English prisoner. Anfo-
nina, the w^fe of a whole-souled niseal
named Generoso di Salerno^ had a
thin, melarieholy faee^ with magniilceat
great lotus-eyei^. She whs eln erful and
generous, and did a great detil fi>r !^[r,
Moens in the way of mcadinir h'l^ clot lies ,
and filiaring her food with hi in during
the many periicwld when victuals were
scarce, iMaria and Concetta were
both ugly and Fulky, hardly ever
f<jx>ke, and never gave away any-
thing.

It was a terrible life the:»e brigand:*
led, very different from the free and
pieluregque cai^eer wttli wliveh poetry
and rom-mee love to idealify thetu.
lluulcd by the soldi er^ and ilcecoil by

their frietidi the peftutnto; siilSaug
the esctremea of hungi^r, thir^^ nod

fatigue ; pa.s?ing lotig days and nighta
of apprehension among the per|jetajil
snowt^ of tlie moutitiiin suDimits, irhcfo
they often dur»t not light a lirts to it Ann
llieir benumbed limbd or cook thetf
stolen sheep or gfjut, for fear le^t the
iluine thoald heimy them, and where
they would scarcely anaich a few mo-*
ments for re()ose, that they might be
ready for instant flight ; dreading evm
lo take off their clothes to wsl^U them*
selves, because the pur:«.uil might be
upon them at any raometit ; v'^ ;* '^ 'i>-
sunl prices for all thai tlie i

fi*ora the country [leople ; u i .a

gambling ilic sums tlmy rt* i^ 1 fuc
randoms ; and haunted every liour by
thv Nettie^is of pjtHt erimc^ atid vain
lotigings fur a lawful and quiet li!t^—
the most wretched captive in his duo*
geon seems almosi happy in coinpari*^
t^on with tliem* Mr. Moens pai^rd
about a hundred days in their compA*
ny. The rara.^om. finally retlueed to
i] 0,000 ducftls, was not raised witliae
some delay, in a country where las lu
few a"iiuainlances, and even aftef
was raiBcd the getting it safely to tl
hand waa a work of lime and ditHcuUi
for the government punishes all iD(€
eoni'se with the brigands with gix^ate
verity. The mhltcrs meanwhile becan
impatient Our author Wits forcc*l 1
accu^totn himself to kicks^ e tiffs, stJi
vation, andevtry species of ill-uf
and there was serious talk of cutting t
his ears and sending them to Ins wife f
gentle incentive to haste. The mixiQ
came at la^t, however, and he pa _
from the gang on very friendly terms,
receiving from them Indbre he lelt
enough raoney to enable lum to Iravi
to Naples *' like a gentleman," bcdido
several interesting keepsakes, such an
a number of rings, and a knife whic
hud been the in?tnimcnt of one or tn
murders.

There is a sort of relief in tunyit
from these two narratives of rascalil
to the next hook on our list, tho
literary merit it i^ very tar iufei

IVaveUers' Ibles.

123

them. It is the narrative of a lady's
traTels in Spain. There is not much
novelty in the subject, and only a very
moderate degree of skill in the execu-
fion; but it is something to get into
decent company. Mrs. William Pitt
Byrne* travelled from the Pyroneean
frontier of Spain, through Valladolid,
Segovia, Madrid, Toledo, and Cordo-
va, to Seville. Her book, with all its
fiiults, supplies some lively pictures of
modem Spanish life, and the reader
who has patience to hunt for them will
also find in her pages some valuable
bits of information about the condition
and proivpects of the kingdom. She
has a great deal to say about the dis-
comforts of travelling in Spain, and
the horrors of the hotels and inns,
which are scarcely less abominable
than those of Russia. However useful
these particulars may be to persons
meditating a trip through the Penin-
jsabL, they can scarcely be thouglit very
important to the public generally ; and
we shall therefore content ourselves
with extracting from Mrs. Byrne's two
handsome volumes an account of a
hall-figbt at Madrid, which, notwith-
standing her sex, she was induced by
a bense of public duty to witness. We
pass over the description of the arena
and the spectators, and the prelimi-
nary procession of the actors in the
bloody spectacle, and come at once to
the moment when the bull is let into
the ring :

" Xo sooner was egress offered him than he
ntahed headlong into the circus, dashing mad-
It roand as if he sought an escape ; baffled in
diia, and scared by the fanfare of the trumpets,
the glare of the sun on the yellow sand, and
the Tociferous shouts of the people, he sud-
<l«ol7 stopped, raised hid head, and stared
^dly round. The blood was already stream-
ing from his neck where the devua^\ in this
«3e a sky-blue ribbon, had been fixed,
l^caniime the lidiacbren, fifteen in number,
vere scattered about the arena, each with a
Wghlly tinted cloak of different colors twisted
>hoal his arm, the picadoret being drawn up

*0om de GapaBa: Illastratire of Spain and the
9l*aianlt u they are. By Mr«. Wra. IMtt Ilyrne,
*«!»«• of FlemUh Interior*, etc 2 vol*. Svo , pp.
P^iSSi LoodoQ and Sew York: Alexander Stra-

tThe de9i»a differs In color, and Indicates the
^■Mrffria irheoce tint ball has coma.

in a defensive attitude, one behind the other,
HS far as possible from the centre of the circus.
The horses, we observed, were blindfolded, ^
pour came. Some precautions were taken
for the safety of the toreros ; thus there were,
here and there, slits in the barriers,* through
which an expert fellow could glide, ia extreme
cases, and there is a step all round, from which
the more readily to Tault over the paling.
For the protection of the public, a tight rope
was strained all round the circus, fixed to iron
stays, to arrest the progress of the bull, if, in
his fury, he should attempt to scamper up-
wards among the spectators. This frequently
occurs, to the great deliglit of those who are
far enough off not to be damaged, and who
seem to forget that the next time it may be
their turn. Frightful indeed are the acci-
dents, both among actors and spectators,
which sometimes happen dur.ng these games;
and, as they arc generally of some unexpected
kind, one never jcnows whether some awful
casualty may not be on the point of occur-
ring ; it is always on the cards.

** The bull now discovered his adversaries,
and seemed instinctively to recognize theii;
treacherous iuteptions. The people became
impatient for an attack, and the trumpets
blew ; the capeadorea hovered about, dazzling,
perplexing, attacking and repelling the bewil-
dered brute, according to the different colors
of their cloaks, and always gracefully and in-
geniously eluding his vengeance. At length
one, emboldened by success, continued his
provocations beyond the bounds of discretion;
the bull abandoned the others, and selecting
bis persevering tormentor, defied him to single
combat. Scattering about the sand with his
hoofs, he ploughed the ground with his mtiz-
zle, and, putting himself in a butting atti-
tude, he pointed tire back of his head and the
tips of his horns with a menacing determina-
tion towards the object of his just vengeance.
The agile torero^ however, knew his bull ; he
never lost presence of mind for a moment,
but twisting about the capa till it became in-
flated, he flung it before the beast's face, and,
under cover of its folds, fled nimbly to the
barrier. The bull, furiously enraged, tossed
the crimson silk, tearing it with his horns,
and then, discovering how he had been duped,
made ^r his foe with redoubled rage; but
the capeador had just .-gained the time he
needed to vault over into the fenced ring just
as the bull came up with him. His eye w;i8
dilated, and seemed to glare with fire ; he had
pursued his foe with such fury that the im-
petus given to his course served him instead
of address, and, never losing sight of his man,
he followed him, tumbling ratlicr than leap-
ing over the barrier into the narrow passage,

• At Seville the WUodoren, at leaH those who are
on font, h:ive an Hdilitloual chance of lUifctv in the
wooden Hcrecnit placed alt around at iutervalM, al>out
fifteen inches iu front of the fence 1 ring, l>ehln<l which
they can glide, without fear of being followed by the
ball.

TrmeUm' Tain,

within one short B<^cti<in of wliich mati and
bt.MWt were no»r shut up together,

*' T!i<? approving roars frnni the amphitheatre
were dexifeuing j it was difficult not to be cur-
ried avay by the general entlmsbsm ; it waa
a moment of intense excitement ; the life of
a felton-beinc; seemed to hand an a thread,
ntiii a moment more must decide \m dooiru
It wtu H struggle between brute force nnd in-
telli-rent nciivity: — the man got the Vietter of
it. In thjit instant he maile another desperate
bonrid, nn<l leaped o^rrr Jnti> the neit diviaiofi.
The jH'ople, true to it^ tbaracter—

, ei odll

* Seqtiitur ftiftunua, ui

and wbo but now had thundered a un&nimotts
*j?/'(iw torn!* changed its cry, and it was
"ie Udiador they hsiiled. But he waa not

Ted yet ; the next move — quick aa thoutjht
— was on the part of ihe bull, who, making
A seeond and almost hu pern at urn) bound,
was seen coming up behind him a third
time, when the active fellow, by a happy in-
splration, leaped back into the arena, ;ind hid
brethren in arms, rushing to the rescue, threw
open the communication's to give his provoked
and angry foo free course, till, one of the bftr-
rierfi ticing opened, he spontaneously returned
into the circua, when it was neatty closed, and
the combatant was saTed fur (hi^ time. Still
panting from the desperate chase, the disap-
pointed brute now turned upon the first pien-
dor, but receive! a check from the point of his
lance ;abro;id=itriMm flriwcd from the widfuiiig
ga^h, crimsoning tht* sand, and, as might be ex-
pected, the wounded besi^l turned ftj^^nin with
greater fury on his ni^riailant, who by thi^ liiue
had dnvt.'u hia spurs into hh horae, and^tiy a
bound hud cleared the spi^t, :^o that the crea-
ture's bonis istruck violently, »nd with a fear-
ful crash, into the wooden wall, and the bull,
who tta yet had gained no ailvnnra;x*?» balBed
and stung, coursed once more desperately
round the ring.

** The men seemed to be Uking^ breath ; but
the spectattirs had no intention of being satis-
fied with thiA tame dallying, and they voctfei^
ously aigtiined their di<»iipprobayon. The
trumpet sounded once more, and ihe pteador
advanced a second time to the bleeding hero
of the sport, and pmvoked him with hU
^tfttra,^ at the same time aiding up to t!ie
fence, so that, in ca.4Q his horse should fall,
he might aceare an escape : the sag»cioti)j
beaKt, albeit blindfolded, seemed to have an
instinctire presentiment of the fifite that await-
ed him ; he trembled for a moment in every
limb, a* the bull, with a thundering roar, rent
the air; but, obedient to the spur and to hid
master ^s voice, he recovered hts pace, and ad*
Tanoe4 to meet the inevitable attack. The
bull* lowering hb head, ru.^Ui-»d at the pira-
ilor, luwi, with all the force of hia weight,
plongetl hiji bor\-a deep into ihe poor beast'a
l^bt flank, turning him completely round as

on a pivot, and lifting his hind quartofi ffv^

eral tinies from the ;•- ' ** * k..^^,^ kidctq|

violently. It wiis » . T be pitm^

dor kept his seat uu !»e whole

assemblage yelled it* t*' -it. Tbi

attention of the bull, as s^ ■ mce had

forced him to withdraw hb li^ns, vnv* c«tM
off by the rhulo*, who dnicrlfd Uim witli Um
evolutions of a yellow c! ■' "■ ' •' ■ -'r>^
steed, now released, but \ 't-

tered on, a piteoni spevt , ■■'%

with hig fast-failttig i^trcngtb, to bear hia ndcr
out of danger. Arrived near tbe middle of
the arena, however, hi» broken ateps went
arrested ; his hour wii:^ come, and, iuakin(^
one last but futile effort, ti ' " ~-'h hb rid»
heavily to the ground. M /<*rfalli,

and with his horse upou no mw

matter for him to rise ; and no sooner hadllMy
wretiihed steed isuccumbed^ than the bull,
dashing at the struggling and powerlcs tnaot
* in one red ruin blent,* attacked bocie aad
man once more with alt tbe vigor af kii
horn 8. Ttie picador wa^ uUeTljr h^pka;
imbedded in hij deep saddle »"<1 twmiL'rtiujl
stirrups, hh lower IJmb-^ cased i d

not the shad w of a ehan ee of e \ i ii^

Bolf. His lance he had dropped, and all h$
oould do, and all he did, was to urge bis dytnc
horse with violent and desperate blowa totia?
and release him. The cruelly-uied bcadC,
willing atfd intelligent to the last, mangted i»
he was, and almost ewlmming^ in the crtaiatMi
pool beneath him, made a suprciun « Ifr^rt to
rise ; it wa^ in vain, and all he i lio

was to serve an a «thi<^ld by r* . vU

tack of the »^nra^'ed ball. 5
ter. S^titl tbepo-iirion wik-
the struggle* of the dyir
horns of the infuriated ^
jHtsitrOTi, and tbe next mr>
the helple:<is man's fate. I
dismayed, when another
and, driving his lanri i, r^

aroused him to the c«» \\t^

The toreroii and rAwV^^. „, i ■

divcrsiion to bear the bi
pictutor off the field, and (Ij
not d«.'eraed worth a thought^ i>tH.^use, pecii
niarily spejiking, he waa valueleas — was left
there, not only to struggle to the agonies of
a cruel death, but iiy form a butt for the fran*
tic bull every time be passed bir ■ *' ^jhl.
" Meanti me, as if to carry the I to

the lowest depth, two or three ' irh-

ing their opportunity, advanced Ui iIm» mori*
bund hor*e, and beating him violcnljv with
chibs and sticks, tried to force him to ri<«v
but tn vain; his feet, onee so swift, were d<w-
lined never to support him again, and ^
several attempt* i« comply, he dmppidl
head heavily, and with an almost hiJm»-
pre^on of po^verleasnesa and desruur
jmvage tormmit^rs were not sati^fieil' ewn
now and aa if determined tl>e u<a,le bean
should HOC ev«n die in peace, fwtatalled the

TyaveHers' Talet.

125

few momcoU !»♦? b«d yet U> (>roaUtc, hy drag-
gin/ nfT ^vjth frigbtitil violeocu, the henry
ic ^ with which he was mciitij-

bti . hnving poasc^^d thcmsclvcB

of tlikisc iUUclft?, departed without hiivitig
«T*n h.nJ iiiti prace to put an cud to bis
o«l ' ' ' 0, the bull being engaged

01 with the second jjUaUt^^

on f the circus. The second

pi/-'tri . jieoff better than the first.

If* '< ae first goring, and when

ju* ' ' tJl, wa^ recalled by a sharp

rpur - I 1 • ill hh already koemted sides ; he
vulsive gallop, and bore hia
the rinc, a mi:4erable ipec-
^ u..rf. ti ragged along till,

1 in them, hi** master,
ntriTed to dismount
aud abiindoniiig the dying and
ture to the fury of the bull,
■ and tckdsed him Ttolently,

,' +1,.. T,,.T->j*t.H,j.«i frtro'if own
' pie, fear-
they hnd
rU ihi? L»nju\ mt-ui Umt cuuhl i>i .gs^ibly Iw
1 frotTi 111* atrugi^lea^ eftlled loudly for
iUax, The ItiUi irov-

lltt bksi, and two hold nt-

caiiicm»drc^ ■*"'■•' •*- -m,. ...l.j .M..a pro-
foked by Ih' > the right position

lod altitude i v tormentors to com-

bftaee ihcif attack. The banderdUro was an
tceom^tiah<»l torrro^ who understood his bu^^t-
iieev afi«! be took In at a glanee the bull be
bt4 lo deal with. His ia a perilous oflSce, hut

h# ffpr- ' 1 I. „,:.t. :. . m: . . . ^|^|jj ^J

p^eo: I id his be-

. .. - ^ '(^ ^"'^ ban*

J With proTokmg perseverance, and
pl»de with surprifting muscular accu-
f «fm time the poor bull tried to parry
riat ; at last he aucceeded in planting
Ibjfetti! . V . . j^g jj^ ^^^^ exact

Apii hound to spike

•S5[^u:., xccratioiL^of an

liKmbl^e of ta-^tidious and disappointed con-
A** it waa, they testified their ap-
I of the barbarous feat by a thunder
► a^ the ninihle kyret'o eluded the
*'t retreat. The
frrillti* d roo[>cd

^liL, and flapped

side of lb© poor wreteh*fl

i Icn Hiirt iind piteous roar

U(t^>ked'tor aggravatiun, he bounded

|rtK*rT»)Ui tbp «;tnil, tearing up the ground

\ ' ' it tossing every-

c efforts to rid

■ f'^ffnl, which

, haugiufj

T side of

/ Ui-i hide, now

he new wound,

-111' jiuiij^trom hi« mouth,

;! in its mute hclplcssne^

fur one small drop of water. Strange to iay^
the pitiful Kight touched no rej*ponj*ivc chord
in the liearti$ of Uuit counties nut:^ of human*
ity ; on the contrary* like the bca«t of prey
who \\tiS once licked up blood, this insatiate
ciHiwd seemed to gloat over the secnea tluU
hnd welbnigh iiickcned us ; so far from being
moved to compn5i!.ion, regret, or sympathy,
they urged on the remaining fmiuierUlcnut^
eager in their turn to show their skill^^ and
after ihe usual fjouriahea* two more pair of
fiery hanfterilin* were adding their piercing
pomu to the smarting shoulders of the luck*
le*va biill» * butchered to make a tSpanlnh holi-
day/ Wliat must the Itomin circua have
betm, if this was m unendurable y^ — and yet
tender, geuile, lodng womankind ttssi^ted —
ay^ and applauded tit the ghastly buaiau Hueri-
fioe.

" It was a relief when the trumpet blew
its fatal blast, and the ctipcultt came forward*
bowed to the president, thi-ew off hia cap, and
dtitpkyed his crimaon flag, It wai? Cucharea
— the' great Cuehare^ himself: the theatre
rang with applause. The Toledo steel, bi ight
as a mirror, flashed in hia practised hand ,
dexterously he felt hia grounil ; he eyed the
bull, and in a moment — a crilloal moment fop
l^ini — perceived by testa his experience sug-
gested to him the nature of the animal he
lm<l to deal with, and the mode in which he
must be treated . . - and . . . deitpatclied.
All the other (urtro* had retired, and he 3tood
alone, tm an executioner, face to face with
hia foredooineil victim. It waa a supreme
moment, and the attention of the atuphlthe-
atre seemed breathlessly concentrated into a
aingle point,

'* Then? h a wonderful power of fast^^i nation
in perfection of any kind, and, uotwitlutand-
ing the nature of the act in which it wha to bo
displayed, we felt ouraelyeii insenaibly drawn
under iU inJbtence.

*' The maiaihr began hia operations by daily-
lag with the V>ull : p<j6se89ing all the ijualift-
calion? of a first-rate vftpada^ the confidence
he had in ilie accurac}^ of his eye and the
steadiness of his hand was apparent in every
gesture ; the j^roup fonued a singular tableau^
and the attitudca supplied a series of ejtcite*
ments. Kvory head was stretched forward
with an eagerness which offered each individ-
ual character without disguise, to be read like
the page of a book. Tlje interejst was inten*
sified by a su<iden and unexpected plunge on
the part of the hull ; tt was vigorons, but it
was his lout ; the poor beast was received
with maj<?teily Ki?lf-poasesaion on the point of
the sword, which entered deep, deep into the
shoulder, just above the blade, and with a
fearful groan, the huge and bloody furm fell|
an inert ma'^i, to the ground.

^' The crimson tide of life burst like an ua-
stemmed torrent from his wide nostrils and
gaphig month, and with a quiver wliich seem-
ed to eommunleate itaelf lo the whole amp hi-

P26

lYmfeliers' TaifM.

Uic*Blre, be was stilt for crer. The air wt»
rfTit with ^houu of men, aerearos of woroen^
cries of iipproliatioii and roars of applause,
which were Mi at Ihcir bcight, wlieti one of
the barriers suddenly open<*d^ and the mulei,
with their harness f^ttttering, and their ffrtl^lM
linkting, trotted gavlj in ; a roiMS wtia faistened
with ^'reat dexterity round the neck of the
■tni p»1pit4it'uig Ciifc^^^e, whit'h wjisthcn drag-
ged off with incri'dible rapidity, Ictivin^a pur-
ple furrow in the gnnd : the dead bodi^jj* of
tbft luckh'i« liorise«, one of which hIIU lingered
on, ♦ere inereitea!»ty disponed of in a isimllar
inantier ; the fhtilo* eaine In, some rtiki^ orer
llie lur;;« deep stains beneath where the dead
liad liin^ and elcverly masked the trAuk?* they
bad left, and oiliers >«pi-inkled fresh 34tntl over
tbe 6poC-«. All lractt.H of the deadly eon tost
were obliteratLMJ, and in ti few tiiunient-s the
arena, bright and sunny m ever, w.is prepared
f>r a new eorrida ; the tonr^m nppeurcd
•gain, aa smart and dapper a-* at firut, their
eo9turae< a? fresb, thejp silk flocking* as spot-
leiaa ; no I a aphish of blood had touciied them,
and their Uiut>a apjieared to retaiti their
original pliabiltiy to the last. One tttrruta La
ao like another, the rontine 1** 8o precisely Uie
same — never, apparently, havltig vnricd since
the first bulbfif^ht that erer wa?« exhibited in
the crudest tifocs, and — n»le!*s there be
uu lu'cident — the detail is uo nlightly varied,
jjbat it wouM bo needlea^i to add to tbe
lies we h;»ve already recorded, especially
it la not au entertainment we would wllb
injjly Unper over, even in recollection. We
felt we ought to see it once ; we saw it, were
utterly diHgualcd, and hope never to wiener
the horrid e.\bibitlou a M^cond time/*

We have another book on Spaixi^
just published io LonUon, and nmch
bottcr written than Mn*. Byme'd,
though it does not contain a quattor
m much infiuination as that lady's
d^^u Itory jounial. It iai by Mr* I lenry
IJIackburn,* who made a trip throtigh
the kingdam, in 1864, with a party of
ladie>! and gentlemen. He too went
to s^ee a buill-fight at Madrid, and he
really seemed to have enjoyed it, liis
ehief regret^ when he thinks of the |»er-
fortnance, being thai the odds were
too great against the huIU If I he
l>east hud only been allowefl a fair
ehanc«^t he would have liked it a gt*eat
deal better. He attended another
bull-fjght at Seville, and did not like
it at lUl Tlie great ftttraclion oo

<a,\n In the t>r4^«i>nt I>aj» Dy

11 '4, i»p> 348. I^u4on : iSampft^n^

this occasion was a femalt* ImiH*
fighter, who was advertised aJt the
'' intrepid ^ofionta*" She entertHl tlu*
arena in a kind of Bloomer eimtutnp,
with a rap and a red siiangled ttinrf,
made her iw)w to the president, and Ibcti
lo! to the Englisbgentlcman'fiiuaiP peak-
able di^a|)poiutJnent, a grt*at tub iti»
brought, and ghe was IrOed into it.
It reached her arm-pitii^ and therr *bf
Blood, waving her darts, or hfindmSai.
At a given signal the bull wad let tn,
his horns having been previouiiy col
short and jiadded at the etid^i. ** A« tk
anii^ial could only to^s or do any mil-
eliief by lowering its head to tbe
ground ♦ the n^k did not fti-H'in gr^AU or
the perlormanee jiromising,*^ Th^ boll
evidently considered the %v i
hnmhug, for at first he
nothing to do with the inb^ ^utd kept
walking round and round the rin^*
At \ml indigtmtion got tiie better of
him, and turniiig suddenly upon the
ignominiou? utensil, he s<'Sti it rolhog
half way across ihe arena, with tlic
infrepid seftorita curled up tn«id«.
This seemed very mueh like baitSng 9
hedgehog; hut when the bull enu^hl
up the tub on hid horns and ran bel-
lowing with it round Ihe ring, thi? sport
began to hmk serious* There wa^ n
general rush of b(mderilieros a fid rhuht
to the rescue. The perfonner witt
extrieatixi and smuggled i^^ haute fully
out of the am[>hitheatrr, and the hull
was driven buck to his cage* The
next ael 3Ir. Bhickhurn charactcrixeA
by the ajt|irupnate name of ** skitUci,**
Nine giY)tesqaely drt-^sed negrora
ptood up in a ihjw, and a frisky yoqng
bull was let in to bowl them over.
They nnderslood their duty, and went
down fiat at the first eharge. Thr-a
they sat on chairs, and wei-e kaockrMt
over again. This was great fun, and
appeared to afford unlimited satisfac-
tion to the bull, tJie ninepins, the
audience, and everybody excv'pt
Mr* Blackbuni. The performance
was repeated several timea, Afler
that came a burlbsqne of the pieadaru*
Five ragged beggars, with a grim
smile on tlieir dh'iy ftices, i*ode br»

Tra»eUer$' Tales.

127

ward on donkeys, without saddle or
bridle. The gates were opened, aod
the bull charged them at once. They
rode so close together that they re-
sisted the first shock, and the bull re-
tired. He had broken a leg of one
of the donkeys, but they tied it up
With a handkerchief, and continued
marching slowly round, still keeping
close together. A few more charges,
and down they all went. The men ran
for their lives and leaped the barriers,
and the donkeys were thrown up in
the air. So, with many variations
and interludes, the sport went on for
three hours ; and at last, when night
came, two or three young bulls were
let into the ring, and then all the peo-
-jdel "We left them there," says
oar author, " rolling and tumbling over
one another in the darkness, shouting
and screaming, fighting and cursing —
Bending up sounds that might indeed
make angels weep."

The Spaniard does not always fig-
ure in Mr. Blackburn's book as the
Ugb-bred gentleman we are wont to
imagine him. Take, for example, this
picture of a senor travelling : " For
Mme mysterious reason, no sooner does
a Spaniard find himself in a railway
carriage than his native courtesy and
high breeding seem to desert him ;
he is not the man you meet on the
Prado, or who is ready to divide his
dinner with you on the mountain-side.
He ig generally, as far as our expe-
rience goes, a fat, selfish-1 )oking bun-
^e of cloaks and rugs, taking up more
than his share of the seat, not moving
to make way for you, and seldom offer-
hig any assistance or civilit>'. He is
Dot ?ery clean, and smokes incessantly
during the whole twenty-four hours
that you may have to sit next to him ;
occasionally toppling over in a half-
8l€<»p, with his head upon your shoulder
*^d his lighted cigar hanging from
hi8 mouth. He insists upon keeping
tbe windows tightly closed, and unless
yoor party is a large one you have
to give way to the majority and sub-
nut to be half suffocated." Nor is it
"auch better at the hotels : " A bdy can-

not, in the year 1866, sit down to a
table cthote in Madrid without the
chance of having smoke puffed across
the table in her face all dinner-time;
her next neighbor (if a Spaniard) will
think notliing of reaching in front of
her for what he requires, and greedily
securing the best of everything for
himself. That is an educated gentle-
man opposite, but he has peculiar
views about the uses of knives and
forks ; next to him are two ladies (of
some position, we may assume ; they
have come to Madrid to be presented
at the levee to-morrow), but their
manners at table are simply atrocious.**
In his own house, it must be admitted,
the Spaniard behaves better ; but it is
only among the few that one encounters
the same degree of refinement and
good manners that commonly prevail
in England and America. The Span-
ish gentry read little and are very ig-
norant ; and, as a rule, ignorance and
refinement are hardly ever found to-
gether."

As a specimen of one of the lower
classes take this extract : ** Our beds are
made by a dirty, good-natured little
man, who sits upon them and smokes
at intervals during the process. Our
fellow-travellers, who have been much
in Spain and have been staying here
some time, say that he is one of the
best and most obliging servants they
have met with. He attends to all the
families on our Ctage, and earns 18s.
or 2O3. a day ! Every one has to fee
him, or he will not work. We found
him active enough until the en<l of the
week, when our 'tip' of GO or 70
reals, equal to about 2s. a day, was in-
dignantly returned, as insufficient and
degrading. The latter was the griev-
ance : his pride was hurt, and we
never got on well afterward. He had a
knack of leaving behind him the damp,
smouldering ends of his cigarettes;
and on one occasion, on being suddenly
called out of the room, quietly depos-
ited the morsel on the edge of one of
our plates on the breakfast table."

The great feature of Spanish life
seems to be its laziness. Crowds of

128

Annivencarg.

idlers, wrapped in their picturesque
cloaks, stand about the plazas from
morning till night, doing noting, rare-
ly speaking, and scarcely seeming to
have energy enough to light a cigar-
ette. Sometimes they scratch their
fusees on the coat of a passer-by, In
a contemplative, patronizing fashion,
that takes a stranger rather aback.
A young Madrileiio is content to
lounge his life away in this manner ;
and if he has an income sufficient to
provide him with the bare means of
subsistence, with his indispensable
cigarito and his ticket for the bull-
fight, he will do no work. In the
morning he lounges on the Puerta del
Sol; in the afternoon he lounges (if
he can't ride) on the Pradoj in the
evening he lounges in the cafe or
the theatre. This is all he cares for,
and about all he is fit for. The mid-
dle class — the shop-keepers — have
as little energy as their betters. " We
went into a confectioner s one day,"
eays Mr. Blackburn, "to purchase
some chocolate, and were deliberately
told that, if we liked to get it down
from a high shelf, we could have it ;
no assistance was offered, and we had
to go empty away." Could we accept
Mr. Blackburn's sketch, or Mi-s.
Byrne's either, as a true picture of
Spanish society, we might indeed de-

spair of the ultimate rege
the kingdom. But the
Travelling in Spain at tL
Day has the candor to adc
is only a superficial observe
the following honest and coi
passages from his concludii
we take leave of him and o
together :

" Spain is not a country t
and there is no nation whi
unfairly estimated by forei
pay it only a flying visit
no opportunity of apprec
Spaniards' good points, noi
come at all aware of their I
of humor, their good-h
and their true bonhomie.
with them in crowds, we r
against them in travelling
tience is sorely tried, an
apt, as Miss Eyre did, tc
them as worse than ' barbari
we should bear in mind that
differ from other nations coi
in this — that they become sc
tallizedf and crystals, we all
are never seen to advantaj
contact with foreign bodies.
Spaniards are not aa other
Spain is a dear delightful t
traries, where nothing ever
you expect it, and where ' <
jects never cast their shadow

ANNIVERSARY.

The brooding July noon, the still, deep heats

Upon the fuU-leaved woods and flowering maize,

The first wheat harvest, and the torrid blaze

Which on the sweating reapers fiercely beats

And drives each songster to its own retreats, —

Much less the stately lily of the field,

Gorgeous in scarlet, whose large anthers yield

The honey-bee meet [)ri8on for its sweets,

A flame amid the meadow -land's rich green —

With the revolving year is never seen

But o'er the sunny landscajK} creeps a shade

Of solemn recollection. Lilies ! lean

Your brilliant coronals where once was laid

A boy *s brow grand in death, and ^ Rest in peace*' be s

Trom The MocUa.

ST. CATIIARIKE AT FLOREKCE.

The history of every race* every

Institwfkn, ererj community, and even
evtry iiimily, has facts, phenomena,
and chanirteriatifa of iu own, which
afe tbe necessary resulia of the opera-
tioo of certain elements or influences
that bdong to the subject of the history,
fir bear apon it with a peculiar force.
It is the province of the philosophical
hiitorian to seize upon these character-
irtic features in each ease, anil to p^ve
tHcm their due prominence; and an
liUimate aequaiotance with them tintl
% fkie estimate of them are esscn-
tiftU/ necessary to any one wlio under-
tjikes the work of such a historian.
To lie deficient in this point is enough
tomin the attempt Thus^ we might
Uve n rationalistic writer on church
^'BSory free from every prejudice, and
^-ndo^ed with literary powers of the
litghenl kind— candid, impartiiiJ, indus-
Imouj), judicious, fuU of generous sym-
pathif\ and large-minded and clear-
«fht<xi enough to take rank by the
iide of Thucjdides or Tacitus — and
yet Iir w ould fail even ludicrously as a
Cfaristian historian, because he did not
'^'cagnixe the ever living supernatural

nby which the fortunea of the
are ordinarily guided-^the
fcrce of prayer, the power of sanctity,
liio softening and restraining influences
•f faith* charity, and conscience, even
•0 men or masses of men hut imper-
Mv masters of their own passions^
wd bjr tio means unstained by vice.

It h our object in these papers to
gi»p jirominence to &ome of what may
^ conceded to be the more charac-
teriitic f«amre« of Christian history,
<^b may ncTerthelesfl be left in the
*^ by tlkO»e to whom it is little more
Jhu the history of Greece or Rome.

Thus, a philosophical historian might
see in the retuni of the Holy See from
its long sojourn at Avignon a stroke of
profound policy^ by which jt9 emanci-
pation from the straitening influencea
of nationalism was cheaply purchased,
even at the cost of the great scandals
which followed, and which a calculat-
ing politician might have foreseen.
But to such a writer the manner in
which the step was brought about
would seem to be a riddle ; for nothing
is clearer than that it was consciously
no stroke of policy at all. The wisest
heads and the most powerful influences
at the pontifical court were united
against it; it wa? the work of an irre-
B is lib I e impulse on the conscience of a
gentle and i>eace-lo?ing Pope, the sub-
ject of a secret vow, a design conceived
under the personal influence of one
saintlj? woman — of princely race in-
deed, and reverend age, and large ex*
perience — but carried out under that
of another in whom these last qualities
were wanting ; young, poor, the daugh-
ter of an artisan, yet who was able lo
succeed in her ra^ission when success
seemed hopeless, and to become the
instrument of strengthening the suc-
cessor of St. Peter in an emergency
tliat might have taxed the courage of
the grtiat apostle himself.

Catholic art has sometimes repre-
sented St. Catharine of Siena as taking
a part in the triumphal procession with
which Gregory XL entered Rome,
and fio tenninated the longex^ile of the
Holy See at Avignon. These repre-
sentations, although true hi idea, are
false as to the historical fact ; for St.
Catharine never entered liome in the
lifetime of Gregory. Atkr having
seen him embark from Genoa oa hia

St CathartM at Floreneu

voyage toward the Holy City, she be-
took herself, with her compjiny of db-
cipleSf to her own home at Siena, where
she seems to have remained, with oc>
easional excursiona into the neighbor-
ing country, for nearly a year. She
then reappeard in pnbhc, having been
aeiU once more by the Pope to Flor-
ence, in the hope that her presence
there might strengthen the hami^ of the
better party in the Republic, and bring
it round again to peace with ihe church.
In the interval fihe resumed her usual
occupations, exerting herself in every
possible way for the good of souls.
Her letters at this time show great anx-
iety for the peace, which !iad not yet
been obtained in Italy; lor the cm*
sade, which wai» always in her heart ;
and, perhaps more than alh for the
moat diflicult, vet raost necessary of
the ohjects that were so dear to her —
the reform of the clergy, and especially
of the prelacy. It would be a thanL-
less task to inquire into the many
causes which had foittered worldllne^s
among churchmen at that time, and so
prepared all the elements for the great
scandal tJiat was so soon to follow in
the " schism" of the Wt sL The be^st
interests of the church had, in reality,
more deadly enemies than Bam a bo
ViscoDti or the *' Eight Saints" at
Florence, in men who wore the robes
of (iriests and even the miire of
bishops.

Tliere id erery ix^ason to suppose
tJmt the corruption was not widely
spread; hut it had infected many in
high station and authority, and even a
few bad and ambitious prelates can at
any time do incalculable mischief. The
illuminated eye of Catharine had be-
come famiUar with the evil that was
thus gnawing at Ihe very heart of
the church, nxani felting its presence
already by the pride, ambition, and
luxury of ecclesiastics, and ready,
when the moment came to give it full
play, to break out into excesses still
more deplorable than these^ She saw
passion and vice enough to produce the
worst of the evils by which the provi-
deuce of God permits the churcb to be

afiElicted, if only the provocatiofi caoM
that would fan into full bUxe the fire
that was abeady kindled* The B*
Raymond tells us that, 60 far back u
the beginning of the troubles in tki_
Pontifical States, when the t>cws \
of the revolt of Perugia, he went tol
in the deepe^st affliction to tell her what
bad happene<K She grieved with him
over the loss of souls and the scatidil
given in the church ; but, seeing him
almost overwhelmed with sorrow, ilia
bade him not begin his mourning so
soon. ** You liave far too much lu
weep for: what ymi see now is w
milk and honey to that which is to fol-
low."

^ How can any evil be gicftfer tlbu
this,*^ he replied, " when we see Oirii-
tians cai;t away all devoiion and re-
Bpect to Holy ChuTch, show oa fenref
her censures, and by their aeUons i
hc!y deny their validity? Kela
remains for them now to do but lo|
nounce entirely the faith of Chriat,*'

" Father,*' &aid Catharine, •*mll T
the laity do: soon you will sec how
much worse that is which tiic dci^
will do.''

Then she told him that there wcffild
be rebellion among tljem also, when
the Po[>e began to reform their bed
mannera, and that the cotutequenee
would be a widespread scandal in the
church; **iiot exactly a heresy, but
which would divide it and aAict it
much in the same way as if it were-*
This prophecy was made about two
years before the time of which wc arc
now speaking. It is no wonder that,
with thi§ clear view of the exi,sting cle-
ment!? of evil before her* Catharian
should have urged upon Gregory XL
the apparently inipofisible prqjeel of a
retbrm of the clergy* It was apf««
rently impo^^ible, partly from the cir-
cumstances of the time, partly from
the character of the pontili" hiraself-
The troubles of Italy Btiil continued :
all attempts at pacification failetl, juhI
the fortune of the war was by no
means favorable to the cause or tlie
church, Moreover, at Rome* Lho I
d^u%t or baanerct£| who bad for i

St. Oatkanne ai Florence.

time hid poMesftion of tbe cliiof power
01 the ciijf bad laid, indeed, tbeir rods
of office al tbe feet of Gregory at hia
comaee, bul they still exercised their
anlkoritj without regard to his ordera
or his wishes, and he found hLtnself,
thfrcfoiv, not even master in his own
cspiUil This was not a time to under-
iake tkit most dilEcult of all Uksk^^
which was )'et imperalively required
for the welfare of the church. Nor
ffi» Gregorjt with hia feehlc health*
with tbe band of death already upon
1^ iod with bid gentle and patient
dift{toeitioo« fitted rather for suffering
thaio hr action, the natural instrument
far a work that called for sternness
iwlwrerity. Nevertheless, Catharine
urged it upon bim with a firmness that
ibotfs U once tbe influence she had ac*
<|uired, and her bui'ning sense of the
DtctSiiity of the measure. In one of
tk Ihn^ letters to hirn that belong to
thii lime^ she telle bim that the su-
fxreou truth demands this of htm : that
heiliooy punish the multitude of in-
ifMm oonunitied by thoi^e who feed
IhimAwea in the garden of the Holy
Ckudi; *" Beasts ought not to feed
(ikeoiielTee on the food of men. Since
thttiotbortty has been given to you,
tai joa have accepted it, you ou^ht to
••e jmr power : if you will not use it,
H ir«m better to renounce it, for the
taior of God and the salvation of
look.^ She insists also upon the ne-
oentity of granting peace to the revolt*
fd cities on any terms that were con-
aaleot with the honor of God and the
ngka of the church. " If I were in
^r pk'.***, I should fear that tbe judg-
iBtQt of God might fall on me ; and
ihcrefore I pray you muat tenderly, on
^ part of Jesus Chritit crucified, that
700 obey the will of God — diough I
baw that you hav^ no other desire
thtQ to do his will ; i^o that tliut hai*d
fiebake may never l>e made to you,
'Wot! to ibce, for that thuu hast not
the lirae and the jX)wer that were
itted lo tbee' *' (Lett, xiii*) These
itrotig words. Catharine sent
fidhirt Raymond about the same time
(0 Rome wiib a namber of [irdctical

proposals for tbe good of tbo church.
it appears fi-om a letter to Raymond
himself diat Gregory XI. was dis-
pleased witb her, either for ber great
liberty of speech, or, as is more proba-
ble, for the ilJ-8ut*cesfl that seemed to
have followed the step that he had
taken at her adviceni Nothing can Imj
more beautiful or more touching than
her humble apology for herself— ^she
is ready to believe that all the calami-
ties of the church were occasioned by
her own sins.

Gregory had in fact continually oc-
cupied himself with endeavors for
peace with Florence and the other con-
federated citiea; but there had been
tbe usual insincerity on the other side,
and besides, the barbarities committed
by tbe Breton troops at Ceseaa had
produced their natural effect of alien-
ating still more hia revolted subjects.
Negotiations bad been recommenced
even be tore the departure of the Pope
from Avignon, at least so far that the
Florentines had been desired to aend
ambfvssadors to meet him at Rome.
He did not arrive there by the time
appointed, and wrote again from C<>r-
neto to fix a later time. The nego-
tiation failed, as we have said^ not
froai any lack of a desire for peace on
the part of Gregory, but on account
of the bad faith of the rulci-s of Flor-
ence, who really wished the war to
continue* Their cause seemed to
gain strength with time; for Visconti
now took their ftide, regardless of the
treaty that bad been made witli him* and
the English company under Sir John
Hawk wood entered their service. A
gleam of hope came when one of the
revolted leaders, the Lcird of Viterbo,
made his peace with the church,
Gregory immediately despatched two
envoys to Florence, but their effiirts
were in vain ; and in the autumn of
1377 the Eight, who still held the
supreme power, ventured on a step
which gave still greater scandal llian
any of their former excesses, and
seemed to widen still further the
breach between the Kepublic and
the lioiy Sec.

132

Su Cathanne at Flarenee,

Florence had now been for nearly a
rear aad a half under an Interdict,
The churchee were closed — the sa-
cred offices could not be performed,
nor the Baeraments administered^ ex*
cept in private. This weighed heav-
ily on the ma<*8 of the popylation.
There were probably but few, be.^Ides
the Eight and their immediate follow-
cra, who regarded it with iiidiflfcrence*
The Italian character is in many re-
fipectij unintelltgible to those who have
not studied it in Italy itself. We can
hardly understand hosv nine-ten tlis of
the populnlion of a city or a duchy
can eubmit quietly to be governed by
a handful of usurpers, who proclaim
themaelvea the representatives of the
people — the great majority of whom
have abstained from the nominal vot-
ing that had conferred that cliaraeter
upon them — ^and let things take their
course under the tyranny of their new
masters, though that course lead to
finfiTicial rain, burdensome Uxation,
and the spoliation of the best institu-
tions of the CO uu try, as well as to
open persecution of religion aiid de-
liberate attacks on morality. An
Anglo-Saxon population would either
have brought public opinion and gen-
eral feeling to bear iiTesistibly upon
the magistrates, or would have taken
tlie matter into its own bauds, and
ftcnt tiie ** Eight Saints " flouting
down the Amo if they had not
confoiTned their policy to the all
but universal desire for peace.
But the Florentines waited and suf-
fered* showing their attachm>?nt to
the church and to the services from
which they were debarred in many
touching ways, some of whieh have
been specially recorded by the histori-
ans of the time* It was forbidden* for
'instance, that the divine of!it*e — at
wliich, at that time, it was the custom
of the laity to assist — should be sung
publicly in the churches ; but pious
jKjrsons could not be forbidden from
practising such devotions ad might
CKKrur to them in place of the regular
services ; and we find that in oonse-
queucti they organized themselvoB

into confraternities, sad
processions singing hymns ^
of Grod. Many of these seel
been composed by foUowen
pies of 8t. Caiharine. The
movement of popular dcf
make up for the solemn ecc
worship which was suspeni
doubt it was a symptom of aq
sible feeling in the public tnij
frightened the " Eight Sainj
length the feast-day of St. ;
approached — Oct. 8th. She
titular saint of (he cathedl
her feast was usually fl
with splendor and popular I
Were the people to be shut d
church again on the day of thi
saint ? The Eight had^ as j
seen, just concluded their le4
the lord of Milan, and strtt
their arms by the accession 43
wood, and their enroys had
from Rome without terms
They determined to brave '
still further, and to plungte )
into still more flagrant \
against his authority, by ord(
violation of the interdtcL Tlli
indulge the religious wishi
people, making them, at t
time, partners in a gross insi
ligion. Tbey would force i
themselves to the altematiye
part against the church, ar i
ing civil penalties and porN
they refused to do so, ,

St, Catharine, in one of hi
about this time, bhimes ceria
hers of the clergy, and som
mendicant frinrs, as baviJij
coanflelled this outrage, or i
been induc^^d by worldly-
to justify and defend it in tl
In a numerous clergy, cotmi
countless ties with every pi

* Th« Paomo of Tlorcncet M It tig
name-^ MiirU del FioM*— 4i dedloy«i
our Ble«M<l L*d/ ; hvtx li wm% oHi^OAlljf
Sl aepMTaU, all early muljT tu PaIimI
lijd«fortiiedetLr^riuic«o/ tliedt^ Ikoq
lluai Hut lieii«if« I U lo Ui« sa^ «tfl
drU?vnao« took itU4!-« on ttie Amf of Ikf
SUi. TIm Itaftii wiu lt«p>t u on« of lli
with iin oc&MTS. Tfat «ptli>ct " Omt tisf
our Ij>4jr*« ontat la IJM weaeni au«» i|
woe aMlff «4tt ciiit>t«tt «l Ike clljr b*^

&* Catharine at Florence.

laa

I, k is far more 8uq>rism^
) fhoutd ordinarity be found
I tyranny and persecution
at of the Eight, than that
d be weak enough to yield
or its bribes. But the
iry great, and it would

!^*at body of" the clcr;^y,

ding heavy fine3 leveled on

did not obey the order of

mnent, stood firm. The

.Ricasoli — bad already left

Ither than expose hira^^elf

per of coercion. But there

eatest danger for the better

k among the people and

eeclcdiastics ; and the state

jaUed for the moi^t vi^rorous

}a the part of the Pope to

temedy before matters ^fr^w

) It may eeem very strange

I of otip century to say that

V '1 by Gregory was

& Ai could have been

1 Uie sdjne of which the

p bad bethought thetn^selves

hod widhed to make their

al Avignon. It had failed

^ on account of their bad

I it had produced another

I for which Providence liad

» The odious government

)lunged the Florentine re-

) so many pxeessies was to

kown by the better and

irt among the citizens them-

I still might bare been too

tert themselves on the side

and order if they had not

\ among I hem to encourage

Ibem. We should all think

Too lis h if we were to deny

results are the natural and

sequences of the exertion

■ influence : it is only that

i bring oufiselves to con-

^^ personal itifluence of

Hpgnised sanctity may be

Pn than any other*

Raymond, the friend and

of St. Catharine, tclb m

tben in Rome, governing
convent of the Minerva.
1 some conversation^ before

leaving Siena, with Niccolo Soderini, a
noble Florentine» who had told him
that the great roajonty of the citizens
wished for peace with the Holy See,
and that it might easily be brought
about if some of the present magis-
tratCB were deprived of their ofiices.
He even pointed out the way in which
it might be done. One morning the
Pope soDt for Father Rjiymond, and
told him he had received letters sug-
gesting that peace might be made if
Catharine were sent to Florence to
use her influence there ; and he bade
him, accordingly, prepare a paper
stating with what powers it would be
expedient to invest her* The bulls
were at once drawn op, and Catharine
received orders to go to Florence as
legate of the Holy See, She was
joyfully received, and at once set to
work to confer with the most influen-
tial persons in the state* The first
fruit of her exhortations wa.^, that
the interdict was again observed, and
the first great scandal thus removed.
The next ulep wa^ a more dllficuU one*
How were the obnoxioua magistrati*8
to be removed without a revolution ?
The friends of peace were obliged to
have recourse to a curious institution,
belonging to that long-established
party orgnuizatioti which had be en
tlie tVuit of the division of the Italian
cities, and of each city, more or less,
within itself, into the hostile factions
of Guelpbs and Ghibellinea. Flor-
ence had always been Guel[>h, and it
appears that certain elected leaders
of tbe dominant party had obtained a
recognized rights iu order to maintain
the government of the city on their
own side, to object to persons of the
opposite party, and remove them from
any post that they might chance to
bold, A power like this was of course
liable to great abuse : it hjis reappear-
ed ijovv and then in history in some
of the worst times, and been the in-
strument of the greatest injustice and
wrong. In Florence it seems to have
been exercised with moi*e moderation
than in many modem instances ; still
it had sometimes b»:'eu used uuscrupu-

134

St* Catharine at Ihrmce*

lonstyy and made the means of fiaiis^fj-
ing private nialicc and personal re
venge or ambition. It was therefore
very unpopular^ and seems to have
lx!en practically disiised at the time of
wliich we spe4ik. Catharme, however,
tliought tliat it might now be ptit in
use with advantage, to take the reins
of govemraeut out of the hands of
the Eight, and break down their per-
nicious influence ; and it is certain
that a fairer use of such a power could
never have been made. The plan
seems to have been suggested by her
friend Niecolo Soderini, whom we
lately mentioned* It vvai urged on
the Guelph officials by Catherine ;
and one oi" the Eight was accordingly
** admonished, ' a3 the phrase was,
thsit he was not to occupy liimself
with public uflTairs for the future. lie
was a man of much influence, btit he
does not seem to have reiLstcd the
admonition.

Unrortunately, the leaders of the
Guelph party wei'e wiUing to make
peace with the IIo!y See, but their
* dominant idea wiis to restore tlvem-
selves to power and ruin their enemies.
They began to "admonish"' on all
sides, and to use the name and author-
ity of Catharine as vouchers for the
purity of their motives and the wisdom
of their policy. It is said that in the
apaoe of eight months they either re-
moved as many as ninety citizens
from posts of authority , or prevented
them from acquiring them. It may
easily be imagined that this could not
be done witliout exciting furious pas-
sions ; a storm soon began to gather,
which did not wait long to burst.
Catharine protested and entreated,
und, to some extent, checked the evil.
She had already prevailed on the gov-
ernment to entertain seriou:«ly ttie j>ro-
ject of peace. It was agreed that a
congress should assemble at Snrzano
for the settlement of the troubles that
agiiated Italy. The Pope sent a car-
dinal and the Bishop of Narbonne as
bis representativos ; Finance, Naples,
Florence, Genoa, and Venice were to
Bead others ; and Barnabo Visconti

was to be present in person to nM*

trate between the Pope and FloirDee-
A strange position for that inTetcnrtR
plotter againgt the church ; but oat
which shows, at all events, that Greg-
ory XJ. was willing to do a great deal
for the sake of peace, Everytlling
seemed fco promise well ; but while lli
congress was deliberating, GrrgOfy
died^ and nothing could thare^bf^ fw
concluded. His death took pho& u
March, 1378. Catharitie ^vas still «t
Florence, and seems to have had gocwl
hopes of bringing matters to a hwor*
able issue, notwithstanding the failure
of tlie congress. The new " goafaloit*
iere " seems to have been elected oo
the first of May. He bore a name
afterward destined to become con-
nected with the later splendors of liii
counlry^ — Salvestro dei Medic i ^a d
he was a man of firmness and ittQ^
ing sufficient to enable him to defy and
check the extravagances of the Guetph
officials. It was agreed between theai
thiii there should be no more '^idmo-
uitions," except in tli perAOOl

r.' ally tainted with <- m- princi-

ples; and that in no ease should the
"admonition** be valid af^er tht^ third
time. He was, moreover, bent oo
carrying out the peac? with the P(
and, as it seems at the entrejtty <
Catharine^ sent fresh ambaMid<
Urban VL, who had now s
Gregory on the iK)niifical thronOh

These fair prospects were
clouded over by the midcbleroiii
siinacy of the Guelph parly,
time came on, very soon
Blalment of the new ** gont
the selection of new **
whose hands woull pa«ts i'u
power oi^ ^adaaonishing. * X
men did not consider themselves bound
by the promises made by their prede>
cessora ; they were not friends of " '
arine, as some of the others bad
and they began to use their powi
the former reckless manner
eapecially threw down the gaiiiii
Silvestroani to the other maxisi
by their exclusion of two men of
tinction^ which showed their detertut*

f9. Oathanne ai Florenei.

Batkll to cftiry things to extremities,
Hefi^ t^n^ we meet with the historic
mkW% of Ricfisoli* Oqc of that family
wnd limong the captains of the Gnelphs,
itnd 18 said to have forced this exclu-
tion on his less willing colleagues*
11) e strain became al length too great,
(id Salvestro himself fianctioned a
pular outbreak against the Guclph
a movement over which he

lo^ an conlrol, and which led in

-k^ftw months- to a Btill more terrible
OQlbrrakT known as tbe affair of the
Ciompi. Tbe fury of the i>eople, led
bj the Ammoniti — thoae who had
been excluded from office by the exer-
cise of the pttwer lately mentioned-^^
and unche<^-ked by any attempt on the
part of the le<j^itimate autliorities to
re^tnun it, was irresistible. Many
lives were sacnficed; the leaders of
tbe Guelphs saved themselves by tlight,
ksaviDg their houseg to be sacked and
bunil* Niecolo Soderini and other
ftieoda of Catharine were among the
ftig;itiros, though they had not taken
psut in the excesses that provoked
tbe rising. As the tumult gathered
fftrrngtb, and the people became blinder
bi their fury, ominous voieca were
beard calling for the death of Catha-
rioe herself. Her name had b<3en
&«elj used by (he Guelph official:?,
iboagh ihe had protested pubtiely
igaioai theii' violent acta, and had en-
tieaied them repeatedly to be guided
by justice and prudence. The scene
that followed* a kind of turning-point
in her life^ shall be told in the wonls
of ber simple biographer. When the
nimor of the intended attack on Cath-
vine aprcad, '* the people of the house
iowbieh she dwelt with her compan-
'^m bade them depart, for they did nut
wiph to ha 9 e the house burnt down on
tbir account* She meanwhile, con-
Kimig of her own innocence, and will-
i»sri^r puffiMing anything for the cause
"f the Holy Church, did not lose a jot
of b<»r wontcil constancy, but smiling
Biul encoa racking her followers to em-
bUle her Spouse, she went out to a
oertaio place where there was a gar-
<kii«and first gave them a short cxliort-

ation, and then set herself to pray.
At last, while she wa» thus praying in
the garden, after the example of Christ,
those satelUtes of the devil came to
the place, a tumultuous mob armed
with swords and staves, crying out,
* Where is this cursed woman t Where
is she ?' Catharine, when she heard
this, as if she had been CiiUcd to a de-
lightful banquet, made herself ready
at once for the martyrdom which for a
long time she had desired, and placing
herself in tbe way of one who had his
sword drawn, and was crying louder
than the rest, * Wliere is Catharine ?*
she cast herself with a joyous counte-
nance on her knees* and said, * I am
Catharine; do therefore with me all
that which our Lord permits you to
do; hut I command yoii, on the part
of Almighty God, not to hurt any of
my companions.* When she said
these wonl^» the wretch was so terri-
fied and deprived of all strength, that
he did not dare either to strike her or
to rem II in in her presence. Though
he had so boldly and eagerly sought
for lier, when he found her he drove
her away, saying, * Depart fi-om me/
But Catharine, wishing for martyr-
dom^ ansvvereil, * I am well here» and
where should I go? I am ready to
suffer for Christ and for hi?? church,
because this it js that I have long de-
sired and sought with all my prayers.
Ought I to Hy now that 1 have found
what I have longed for? I offer my*
self a living victbn to my dearest
Spouse. If thou art destined to be
my sftcrificer, do at once wluitever thou
wiliest, for I will never Hy from this
spot ; only do no Imrm to any of mine.'
What more ? God did not permit tho
man to carry his cruelty any further
agiiinst li<^r, but he went away in con-
fusion wilh all his companions.^' And
then Fr. Kaymond goes on to tell us
how, when alt her spiritual children
gathered round her full of joy at her
eacjipe, she alone was ovonv helmed
with sorrow^ and lamented that bhe
had lost through her sins the crown
of martyrdom.

She was reserved for further labors,

136

SL Cathanm ai Ifarmiii.

and fur a martyrdom of anoUier kind
in the same c^use ; and 8he liad soon
the consolation of fleeing that ber mis-
Fion to Florence had not been fruitless.
The death of Gregory XL dispersed
the coiigrees of Sarzona ; biit the Flor-
en lines remainetl, amid ail their intes-
tine lroybles» fiiTn in their resolution to
make peace with the IL^ly See. Be-
fore the outbreak of which we have
just spoken, they had arranged terms
with Catharine, and ambassadors had
been chosen to go to Rome to treat
with the new Po[3e, Catharine, who
had known Urban VI. when she waa
at Aviii^non, now wrote to him earne^st-
ly entreating him to accept the terms;
she was afraid lest the scenes of vio*
Icnce and bloodshed that bad lately
taken |>hicc might make hira less in-
clined to peace. Her entreaties were
suecesafiil. The terms of peace were
honorable to the Holy Sec, Every-
thing wa^ to return to the state in
which it had been before the war ; the
Flon'.n tines were to pay 150,000 Hor-
ina — a very moderate indemnity for
the mifichief they had caused in the
Papal States ; and two legates were to
be i^ent to nhfiolve the city from the
ccDsurea it had incurred* Callmrine,
full of joy, returned to Siena* She
had refused to leave the Florentine
territory after the outbreak in which
lier life was threatened, saying that she
was there by order of the Pope ; but
she had withdrawn for a while to the
mouaatery of VaUombrosa.

The peace with Florence was of im-
mense importance to the church at that
moment. The great storm which
Catharine had predictetl was olrt*ady
gathering ; she herself was to be called
on for still greater exertions in the
cause of the pa]jaey, and within a year
and a half to be in a true sense the
victim of the struggle. After leaving
Florence, she spent a few months in
re|>ose at Siena» during which she dic-
tated to her disciples her only formal
work, known by the name of the Dia-
logue. It has always been a great
treasure of spiritual doctrine, though
never 00 widely popular as the collec-

tion of her marvellous Letters
in the course of these few mom
an author as fitted as any o
decide the question of time p^
remarkable anecdote of the s.
which we have ali'eady rHn ?i
which shall form the suf 1
conclusion of tliia paper.*

As is so frequently the caa^ i
of political instability, the
governments that so rapidly su<
one another in the rule of th'
Italian repubh'cs, seem to have
the liabit of attempting to m
selves in power by mea^n
most extravagant severity
one who might seem tc%bc di
to them. We have already sf
issue of the odious powers
monishing" possessed by ihi?
party in Florence ; and at th
time of which we are spenkin
republic wa^ suffering under
tyranny of the lowest orders
[wpulaee* who proscribed and
ed from all civil authority a
more worthy of power than
selves* In Siena also the dera
party, so to call it, held swi
chief power was in I lie hands
of magistrates called " Kifoi
who governed by fear, and by
crcise of the moeil jealous wai
over the rest of the iilizen^^
larly the nobles. We are toltf
historians of Siena that it wi
a cnpital crime to strike,
lightly, one of these olfieials^
a certJAin citizen w*as severcl/j
ed because he had given a h
whicli none of them had Iwen
In such a state of things, the 1
of St. Catharine of which

* 11 ^ Oartler, vbo Iwu pftld lerMi tl

eUnitiolcTiffy of llr" '"" "' »' '"H-Hi

tixne, A» our a KtJ

t\tfly rroio one
llke tb« re«U U

Biorr Of !**»• % inj»;.. . ..,

fiiilft 1 1 much fur lier — iafk«^, jm ii »otili
cljiti? «^ln;n the letUffj Trtklch \i fttl<(rwi*p[i
u>on4|. wJio ditl not K-come her <

Vt-tilfi? copy of thr^I'roce**! at C4I
pyrt the dfti« he amIihis, to hmrUigi
baa b«ca itiun fvrituuie tban Um
•clfvn

SL OaAarine ai Florence.

1«7

speaking finds a veiy natural place.
A stranger in the town, a young noble
of Peragia, by name Niccolo Tuldo,
bad allowed himself to speak disro-
spectfiillj and slightingly of the gov-
enunent. His words were carried to
the magistrates ; he was seized, tried,
and condemned to death. We do not
hm what sort of life he had led be-
fore ; bat he was yonng, careless, and
had never, at all events, been to com-
monion in his life. He was not
a subject of Siena, yet he found him-
self of a sudden doomed to be legally
mardered for a few light words. No
wonder that his spirit revolted against
the injostice, and that he was tempted
to spend his last few hours of life in a
fiuy of indignation and despair. Here
was a case for Catharine — a soul to be
won to penance, peace, and resignation,
with the burning sense of flagrant in-
iostioe fresh upon it, from which it
ooold not hope to escape. Word was
brooght to her, and she hastened to4he
prison. No one had been able to induce
the poor youth to think of preparing
fcr death ; he turned away at once ,
either from comfort or from exhor-
tation.

Catharine went to the prison, and
he soon fell under the spell of that
hearenly fascination which is rarely
imparted save to souls of the highest
■aoetity. She won him to peace, and
forgiveness of the injury he had re-
eeHed. She led him to make his con-
hmo. with care and contrition, and
to reaign his will entirely into the
Iiinda c^ God. He made her promise
that she would be with him at the
phee of execution, or, as it is still call-
^ in Italy, the place of justice. In
the morning she went to him early,
led bim to mass and communion,
vhieh he had never before received,
ttid found him afterward in a state
of perfect resignation, only with some
fatf left lest his courage might fail
^ at the last moment. He turned
to her as his support, bowed his head
on her breast, and implored her not to
have him, and then all would be well.
She bade him be of good courage^ he

would soon be admitted to the mar-
riage-feast in heaven, the blood of his
Redeemer would wash him, and the
name of Jesus, which he was to keep
always in his heart, would strengthen
him — she herself would await him at
the place of justice. All his fears and
sadness gave place to a transport of
joy ; he said he should now go with
courage and delight, looking forward
to meeting her at that holy place.
" See, " says she, in her letter to Fr.
Raymond, *^ how great a light had been
given to him, that he spoke of the
place of justice as a holy spot !" She
went there before the time, and set
herself to pray for him ; in her ardor,
she laid her head on the block, and
begged Our Lady earnestly to obtain
for him a great peace and light of con-
science, and for her the grace to see
him gain the happy end for which God
had made him. Then she had an as-
surance that her prayer was granted,
and so great a joy spread over her
soul that she could take no notice of
the crowd of people gathering round
to witness the execution. The young
Perugian came at last, gentle as a
lamb, welcoming the sight of her with
smiles, and begging her to bless him.
She made the sign of the cross over
him. "Sweet brother, go to the
heavenly nuptials ; soon wilt thou be
in the life that never ends 1'* He
laid himself down, and she prepared
his neck for the stake, leaniug down
last of all, and reminding him of the
precious blood of the Lamb that had
been shed for him. He murmured
her name, and called on Jesus. Tho
blow was given, and his head fell into
her bands.

Catharine tells her confessor, in the
letter from which our account is drawn,
that she had the greatest reward grant-
ed to her that charity such as hers
could receive. At the moment of exe-
cution, she raised her heart to heaven
in one intense act of prayer ; and then
she became conscious that she was al-
lowed to see how the soul that had
just fled was received in the other
world. The Incarnate Son, who had

138

MUcelkm^f.

died to save it, took it into the arms of
lib love* and pkced it in llie wound
of lib Bide. *" It was shown to me,**
sIjo sajB, " by the Very Truth of
Truths^ that out of mercy and grtiCG
alone he so receivtfd it and for nothing
else/' She 8a ^r it ble-^sed by each
pi^reon of tlie Divine Tmiity. The
Son of God, moreover, gave it a share
of that cruciJied love with which he
had borne his own |iaintul and shame-
In 1 death, out of obedience to hii* Fa-
tlter^ for the ^alvalioti of mankind.

And then^ that all might bd|
the blessed soul itself see
and look ujK>n hen ** It ;
ture," she faya. " sweet eiiou|
thousand hearla ; what
it already tasted the dtviiiie i
It turned a^ the bride turofl
has come to the dfK>r of tli^
her bridegroom; looks roua
friends that have accompari|
her new home, and bows h^
them, a8 a si^ that she thi
tor their kindneas/'

MISCELLANT-

Tfie Prf^puhion of Balloom. — A very
curious apparatus for the above purpose
has been devised by Mr Butler^ one of
the members of the Aeronautical Socie-
ty, which has been ktely established.
It consists of a pair of wings^ to operate
from the rar of the balloon, and whoso
di>wiiward blow is calculated to strike
with a force exceetling forty pounds^ a
' power equivalent to an ascensive force
^ of one thousand cubic feet of car buret ted
hydrogen. The action reqiiired is some-
what similar to thnt of rowing, and would
bo exactly so if nt the end of the stroke
the oars sprang backward out of the
hands of the rower ; but^ in this case,
the body is stretched forward as if to-
ward the stern of the boat, lo grasp the
handle and repeat the process, during
which an action equivalent to *'' feather-
ing** is obtained. It is anticipnled that
these win^^, acting from a pendulous
fulcrum, will produce, in addition to the
' object for which they are designed^ two
effects, which may possibly be hereafter
moditied, but which will be unpleasant
accompaniments to a balloon ascent,
namely, the oscillation of the car and a
Succession of jerks upward, tir.st corn-
* inunicated to the car from below, and
' repeated immediately by an answering
' jerk from the l>alloon,— io/wlo« Popuhir
Sciencs RttUii,

Tfu PaUonous Principle of Mutth^

V¥oomi. — This which is called amanitine,

has been separated and experimented on

by AL LeteUicr^ who has quite lately

presented a paper rceoTdIn*
gations to the French Academi
icine. He experimented withl
loid upon animals, and found i
results as those stated by Boi
ether?* to follow the action oq
He thinks amanitine mi^ht b|
cases where opium is mdical
states that the best antidotes il
poisoning by this principle an
parations of tannin. The gem
ment tn such eases consists |
ministration of the oily purgat(

Th^ C&ndiiwn$ t^ TrUh T>$M
The inquiries* of Dr David M4

showti that whilst Ireland is b€
ed than any other European
the growth of green crops, it \^
to the growth of com and f|
This is attribuUble to the foU#
cumstances ; the extreme hui
the ciiniate, and the slight dififf
twecn the winter arid summer,
tures — a dilference that ii
amounts lo only seventeen txi
degrees, and on the west coafl
forty 'four degrees. The mean
ture of Ireland is as high %» U|
island were filteen degreea m
equator*

Lihmriei of Italy. — There*
public libraries in Italy, conB
the aggregate 4,149.281 volura4
ing to the Brvue de Vlmtmik
li^ue^ Besides these, there artti
riea of the two Chambers, U|

Sbw PMiccahm.

189

OoQDdl of state, and many large prirate
collections, ea«lj accessible. Then there
are 110 nroTinaal libraries, and the col-
lections belonging to 71 scientific bodies.
In the ye%r 1868, 988,610 Tolumes were
called for by readers, of which 183,528
related to mathematics and the natural
sciences; 122,496 to literature, history,
and the linguistics; T0,537 to philosophy
and morals ; 54,491 to theology; 198,972
to jurisprudence; 261,869 to the fine
arts ; 101,797 to other subjects.

The Poi9(mou$ Effects of Alcohol--
Supporters of teetotalism will be pleased
to peruse an essay on this subject by M.
Ci. Pennetier, of Rouen. The memoir
we refer to is a "doctor's** thesis, and it
treats especially of the condition known
as alcoholism. The following are some
of the author's conclusions : (1) Alcohol-
ism is a special affection, like lead-poison-
ing; (2) the prolonged presence of alcohol
in the stomach produces inflammation of
the walls of this organ and other injuri-
ous lesions; (3) the gastritis produced
\>y alcohol may be either acute or chronic,
and may be complicated by ulcer, or gen-
eral or partial hypertrophy, or contrac-
tion of the opening of the stomach, or
poralent sub-mucous infiltration ; (4) in
certain cases of alcoholic gastritis, the
tabular glands of the stomach become
inflamed, and pour the pus, which they
secrete, into the stomach or into the
cellular tissue of this organ. — Popular
Scienee Review,

Th» Influence of Light on the Twining
^^f^am of Plants. — At a meeting of the

French Academy, held on Oct 26th, a
Taluable paper on this subject was read
by M. Duchartre. The memoir deals
with the questions already discussed by
Mr. Darwin, and in it the French botan-
ist- records his own experiments and
those of other observers, and concludes
that there are two groups of twining
plants : 1. Such plants as Dioseorea Ba-
tatas and Mandetillea suaveolens^ which
have the power of attaching themselves
to surrounding objects only under the
influence of light 2. Species such as
Ipomcea purpurea and Phaseolus^ which
exhibit this power equally well in light
and darkness.

Chronicles of Yorikshire. — ^To the se-
ries of works published under the direc-
tion of the Master of the Rolls, the first
Tolurae of the interesting chronicles of an
ancient Yorkshire religious house, the
Cistercian Abbey of Meaux, near Bever-
ley, has been added. Its title runs thus :
" Chronica Monasterii de Melsa, a Fun-
datione usque ad Annum 1396, Auctore
Thoma de Burton, Abbate, accedit con-
tinuatio ad Annum 1406, a Monacho
quodam Ipsius Domus. Edited (Vom the
autographs of the author, by Edward A.
Bond, Assistant-Keeper of Manuscripts
and Egerton Librarian in the British
Museum.'* The abbey was founded in
1150, by William le Gros, Eari of Albe-
marle, and its first abbot and builder
was Adam, a monk of Fountains Abbey.
Thomas of Burton, who was abbot in
1396, brings the history down to that
year. This first volume ends with the
year 1247. — Reader,

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

^^1 Sbs or St. Peter, the Rock of
TBI Church, the Source or Juris-
diction, AWD THE Centre or Unitit.
By Thomas William Allies, M.A., etc.
With a Letter to Dr. Pusey. 1 voL
ISmo, pp. 324. Republished by Law-
rence Kehoe, 145 Nassau Street^ New-
York. 1866.

We cannot sufficiently praise and re-
eommend this little work, by far the
Wst on its topic for the ordinary reader,
IS well as really valuable to the theolo-

eian. It was written before the author
had been received into the church, and
immediately translated into Italian by
the order of the Holy Father. Mr. Allies
was a noted writer of the Anglican
Church, and one of its beneficed clergy-
men. He held out Ions, before he became,
by the grace of God, a Catholic; and
made strenuous and able efforts to clear
the Church of England from the charge
of schism. In becoming a Catholic he
sacrificed a valuable benefice, with the
prospect before him of being obliged to

■

«trng:glo for a living, and, we believe,
was for a time in very straitened cir-
curastnnccs.

In this book, the arguracnt for the
Pftpal Supreniaey from Scripture and
Tradition is presented m a clear and
cogent manner, with solid learning, ad-
mirable reasoning, and in a lucid atid
chanaing stj^le, rendering it perfectly
intelh'pble to any reader of ordinary
education. It is impossible for nny
sophistry or cavilling to escape from
the irresistible force of Mr. Allies's rca*
BOning, It in a moral demonstration of
the perpetual existence and divine in-
stitution of the papacy in the Christian
church.

An attempt has been made to detract
from its force by representing that the
author lumself had in a previous work
drawn a different conclusion from the
Bame premises. Tbisj objection would
have force in relation to a matter of
metaphysical demonitration ; but has
none at all in the present case, which is
one of moral demonstration arising from
the cumulative force of a great number
of separate probabilities. The former
conclusion which the author drvw was
not one totally opposite to his later one,
but merely a partial, defective conclu-
Bion in the same line.

In his first book be admitted the
priraiicy of the Eoman 8ee, but not in
its full extent, or complete applicatioa to
the state of bodies not in her com-
munion. Preconceived prejudices, and
an imperfect grasp of the logical and
theological bearings of the question,
hindered liini from comprehending fully
the nature of the primacy, whose exist-
ence he admitted. His second book is,
therefore, a legitimate development (mm
the principles of the first, although this
very development has led him to quite
~ pposite conclusions respecting certain
nportant facts.

The policy of the enemies of the Ro-
man See is, to accumulate all possible
instances of resistance to her authority,
disputes io regard to its exercise, ambig-
uous expressions conceniing its nature
and origin, intricate questions of law,
special pleadings of every kind, gather-
ed from the first eight centuries of
Christianity. In this way they file a bill
of exceptions against the supremacy
of the Holy Sec. These disconnected,
accidental i^hreds are patched together
into a theory, that the supremacy of the
Holy See has been established by a

gradual usurpation. Sturting on
d priori assumption, the advocates
the claims of Rome are required to provQ
categorically from tlie monuments yf the
first, second^ third, and other early ceO'
turies the full and complete doctrmc of
the supremacy^ with all its CQnj;e<]uen*
CCS, as novv held and taught by theolo-
gians. Whatever is clearer, titron^er,
more minutely explicated at a later
period ttmn at an earlier, is made out ta
be a proof of this preconceived ui^urpa^
tion. In this way, these shallow uid
sophistical writers endeavor to be^ ildcr,
and confute the minds of their rcaiicn
amid a maze of documents, so that they
mav give up the hope of a clear tad
plam solution^ and stay where they tft,
because they are there. A book of thu
kind has just been translated and repub-
lished in this country, from the French
of M. (Juettce, a priest who ha^ left the
Catholic Church for the Russian K^liigm,
under the auspices of the Amcrii
Mark of Ephesus, Bishop Coxe. Fi
a cursory examination of the Frew
original, we judge it to be ag gjpedous
and plausible a resume of the materials
furni^shed by Jansenists and Orientals—
whose skirts the Anglicans uro making
violent clforts toseixe hold of just now— -
as any that has appeared. Wherefore
we trust that it may b€ soon and eifect-
ually refuted.

It is ptain to every fair mind and
honest heart, that this method of trpi*
ment is, in the first place, false and un-
f^ound, and, in the second place, unsuiied
for the mass of readers. U reeks and
Anglicans use it against the papacy, io^
tending to hold on to the trunk of their
headless Catholicism. It can be applied^
however, just as well to ecumcniotl
councils, and all of the rest of the hier-
archical system. So, also, to the Lit*
urg}\ to the canon of Scripture, then
to dogma, and finally to the doctrines
of natural religion. The real order
of both natural and supernatural trcitti
is one in which positive, indestmcti*
ble^ eternal principles are implanted
as germs, which explicate successirdy
their living power. With all their
sophistry, the enemies of Rome* can
never banish from Scripture and tradi-
tion the evidence of the perjvetual ex*
istence and living force of the primacy^
of St Peter.

They cannot form a theory which can
take tn, account for, and totalise all th«
documents of fathers, councils, history,

New PiMicaHans.

141

in the integrity of & complete Catholic
idea. They deny, explain away, object,
question. They have a separate special
pleading for each and erery single proof
or document But there still remains the
cumulatiye force of such a vast number
of probable evidences, all of which co-
alesce and integrate themselves in the
doctrine of the supremacy. The true
iray is to interpret and complete the
earlier tradition, by that which is later.
This is done by our adversaries in regard
to the canon, to sacraments, to episco-
pacy, to the authority of councils. It
ought to he the same in regard to the
papacy. The grand fisu;t of one Catholic
Churdi, centred in Rome as the See of
Peter, stares us in the face. If we can
trace it r^^larly back, without a palpa-
ble break of continuity, to its principle
iQd source in the institution of Christ,
that is enough. Those who set up an-
inother Catholicity are bound to exhibit
to the world something more palpable,
more muversal, more plainly marked by
the characteristics of truth, which can
he legible to all mankind. They must
soWethe problem of all the ages, explain
til history, assert a mastery over the
whole domain of the earth, and prove
that their doctrine and church can fill
iU thinss like an ocean ; or, thev must
step aside out of the way of tne two
gigantic combatants, who are now strip-
ping for the fight, Rome and Lawless

Besides, it is absurd to think that any
<^xcept scholars can be expected to wade
^ugh a discussion like that of a dry
Itw-hook, or abstruse treatise on politics,
eiamining the history and decisions of
councils, and all kinds of official docu-
iQ^nts. The essential signs and marks
of the truth and the church must be
plun, obvious, level to the common
capacity. If the Roman Church be the
frue church, she must be able to show
it by plain signs, which will put all
doubt at rest, where the heart is
sincere. So of the Anglicans, so of
^0 Russians.

, Therefore it is that Mr. Allies^s book
's especially valuable.' It brings out the
^^, unmistakable evidence of the su-
preiDtcy given to St. Peter and his
^ccessors by Jesus Christ. It shows the
S^sign of Catholicity to be communion
^th the Holy Roman Church, the See
J^ Peter. We recommend it to all,
i^t especially to converts or those who
^ studying, and who wish to instruct

themselves fully on this fundamental
topic of Catholic doctrine. There can-
not be a topic which it is more, import-
ant to studv at the present time. The
cause of the papacy is the cause of
revelation and of sound reason, of law
and of true liberty, the cause of Christ,
the cause of God. Whoever defends it
successfully is a benefactor to the hu-

Fblix Holt, Tns Radical. A Novel.
By George Eliot, author of Adam
Bede, The Mill on the Floss,
Silas Mamer, Scenes of Clerical
Life, Romola, etc. 8vo. pp. 184.
New -York: Harper and Brothers.

1866.

Whatever may be thought of the
philosophv of this book, there can be no
question th^t, considered simply as a work
of art, it is one of the most admirable pro-
ductions of the day. There are passages
in it which deserve to be classed among
the gems of English literature, and char-
acters which will live as long as English
fiction itself With Felix Holt, the hero,
we are less satisfied than with any of
the other personages in the story. Full
of generous impulses, and burnmg with
half-formed noble thoughts, he is, after
all, when you look at him in cold blood,
only an impracticable visionary, who
wastes his energy in vain striving after
some dimly-seen good, which neither he.
nor the reader, nor, we are persuaded,
the author herself, fully understands^
and at the end he drops quietly into a
grumbling sort of happy life, no nearer
the goal of his indefinite aspirations than
he was at the beginning, and having suc-
ceeded no further in his schemes tor the
elevation of the people than persisting
in his refusal to brush his own hair, or
wear a waistcoat It is very true that
such is generally the end of reformers
of his character ; the fundamental de-
fect of the book is that the author seem;^
unconscious of the hollowness of Felix's
philosophy, and we are not quite sure
that she is even conscious of his ultimate
failure.

Mrs. Holt, the hero's mother, is an
exquisitely humorous conception, who
deserves a place by the side of Dickens's*
Mrs. Nickleby. She never presents her
austere "false front," or shows the
" bleak north-easterly expression " in her
eye, without arousing a smile ; and her

142

I/ew Puhiicattons,

rambling, inconsequential, dolorous oon>
versaiton is a sprmg of never- failing
merriment. There is a plenty of humor
_too in several of the minor characters^
nd there h delicate and unaffected
paihos in the fanatical and eoniewhat
wearisome little preacher, Mr. Lyon,
and the proud, sutloring Mr:;^. Transome,
whoso youthful sin pursues her like an
aven^ng fury, and whose whole sad life,
*^ like a spoiU*d pleasure day,'' has been
such an utter, pitiful dis^ippointmenL
But the charm of the book is in the
heroine, Esther Lyon. Never, we believe,
ban the conception of refined physical
beauty been so perft?ctly conveyed by
words as in the delineation of this ex-
quisite character. We are told nothing
of Esther's features ; we get no invcnt'>ry
of her charms, no description of her
erBon : a few word*; suffice f<jr all that
be author has to tell us of her appe^ir-
'imce ; but she IJoaLs tlu-ough the book a
vision of unsurpassed loveliness. She
never enteriij a room but we are con-
scious of the tread of dainty little feet,
the fine arching of a graceful neck, the
gloss of beautiful hair, the soft play of
taper tingers^ and a delicate Kcent Uko
the breath of the violet-laden south.
The art with which this exquisite effect
is kept up all through the book, without
repetition, and without the slightest ap-
proach toward sensuality, is so perfect
that we are tempted to call it a stroke of
genius. And the character of Esther is
as fascinating as her l»eauty. The
author ha.^ thrown her whole heart into
the description of the ripening and de-
velopment of this girl, and the casting
aside of the little foibles of her line-lady-
ism under the inllucnce of Felix, The
scenes between these two strongly con-
trasted characters are scenes to be read
again and again with erer iocroasing
delight

The picture.^ of English provincial
life ; the petty talk of ignorant farmers
and sbopkeeperd ; the election scenes,
the canvassing, the nominations, the
tlvcrn discus.sions, the speeches, and
the riot at the polbt, are all admirable,
and their naturalness k almost startling.
There is no exaggeration in any part of
the book, and not even in the richest of
the humorous scenes is there a single
improbable pa^isage.

Ess.\rs ON Woman's Work. By Bessie
Bayner Parkcs. Second Edition.

lOroo, pp. 240.
Strahan, 1866.

Londati :

The serious questions dis
this little book have happily a l<
ing significance in this country]
England ; but even hero the pr
how to find suitable employ u
destitute educated women \s o^
of no slight imi>ortance, and •!
pass on, it will more and more fr^
present itself for solution, Mi^
approaches the subject not m
visionary notions of a social *' ro^
but in a spirit of practical and»
enced tienevolencc, which entitl
remarks to great weight Shft
out how the tendency of mo4i|
chanical improvements is to bavik
domestic life a large and consttt

creasing class of w •- -nd $htt

with eloquence an - fort

provision toward l^ -- - .^1 aoc
lectuai improvement than is t^
present. She trcatifi of the vari«
suits to which educated women I
sort for a livelihotid— teaching, li|
art, business, and so on, and
for which they are well fitted ao
society aught to lay OfK'n to theij
gives a very interesting account
tain excellent associations foii
England for tlie assistant %* of
women, with some of which entj
Miss Parkea herself ha"^ been proa
ly connected. We advise our frw
read her well-written essuvR, thl
may understand something of ttj
ble Buflfering which prevails ^
abroad, and to some extent also a|
among a class of poor who ha^
strong claims upon our commia
but seldom or never appeal in
our beneficence* The evils n
describes, and for which she
alleviations, if not remedies,
stantly growing with the growth i
ulation, and wo ought to oe pre|
meet Uiem.

Six Mokths at tub WurrB Uou^
Abhaiiam Lincoln. The Stoi
Picture. By F. B. Carpenter,
pp, U5i>. New York:
IJoughtOQ* 1^06.

Hui
;n4

Mr. Carpenter Is a young
artist, who, in 18C3, conceived tl
pose of painting a liiht4irical pictiv
memo rati ve of the proclamation <^

New Pubiicaiiotu.

143

dpfttion by President Lincoln. Throueh
the interreotion of influential friends, he
obtained not onlj the President's con-
KDt to sit for a portrait, but permission
to establish his studio in the White House
during the progress of the work ; or, as
Mr. Lincoln expressed it, in his homelj
waj, '* We will turn you in loose here,

Mr. C , and try to give you a good

chance to woi k out your idea." During
the six months that he spent at the pic-
ture, Mr. Carpenter was virtually a mem-
ber of the President's famil}^ He saw
Mr. Lincoln in his most familiar and un-
guarded moments ; he won a great deal
of his confidence and regard ; and he
has Doir set down in this little book his
impressions of the President's person-
al character, and a great store of anec-
dotes and incidents, many of which
hare not before been published. For
the work he has done and the manner
in which he has done it we have only
words of praise. He has given us
the best picture of Mr. Lincoln's char-
Mter as a man that has ever been
drawn, and he has done it with care,
modesty, and good taste. We believe
that no man, however far he may have
Ktood apart from Mr. Lincoln on political
questions, can read this admirable little
book without feeling a deep respect for
our late President's straightforward, hon-
est, manly intellect, and faithfulness to
principles, and without loving him for his
tenderness of heart, and his many ster-
ling Tirtucs. Mr. Carpenter writes in a
tone of ardent admiration, but not of ex- '
tnngant eulogy. He has the pains-
taking fidelity of a Boswell, but without
Bosweirs pettiness or sycophancy. Ho
bag written a book which will not only
^ perused with eagerness by the rcad-
w of the present hour, but will achieve
& permanent and honorable place in bio-
gnphical literature.

^ Ihtroductory Latin Book, intend-
ed as aa Elementary Drill-Book on the
Inflections and Principles of the Lan-
SQ^e, and as an Introduction to the
Author^s Qrammar, Reader, and Latin
(imposition. By Albert Harkness,
I^fessor in Brown University. 12mo,
pp. 161 New York : D. Appleton and
Co. 1866.

The Latin books which Professor
"Vkness has published for more ad-
7^<^ pupils have enjoyed a flattering

popularity, and in schools which have
adopted them the present volume will
prove yery acceptable for preparatory
classes. It is intended, however, to be
complete in itself^ and comprises an out-
line of Latin grammar, exercises for dou-
ble translation, suggestions to the learn-
er, notes, and English-Latin and Latin-
English vocabularies. Unnecessary mat-
ters seem to have been carefully excluded,
and the work has an appearance of great
clearness and compactness.

Philip Earnscliffe; o^ The Morals
OF Matfair. a Ncwrel. By Mrs.
Edwards, author of Archie Lovell,
Miss Forrester, The Ordeal for
Wives, etc., etc. 8vo, pp. 178.
New- York : The American News
Company.

•
This is a clever, unartistical, readable,
repulsive, and utterly unprofitable story,
vulgar in tone and vicious in sentiment.
Both hero and heroine are perfectly im-
possible and inconsistent characters,
and nobody will be the better for reading
anything about them.

The Catholic Teacher's Improved Sun-
day-school Class Book. Lawrence
Kehoe, New York.

This little book should be in the hand
of every Catholic Sunday-school teacher.
It provides for the registry of the schol-
ars names, age, residence, attendance,
lessons, conduct^ and everything necesr
sary for the good order and welfare of the
school or class. It is more comprehen-
sive, and more easily kept, than anything
yet published.

It also has a column in which to record
the number of the book taken by the
scholar from the Sunday-school library.
A library is necessary to the complete
success of every Sunday-school. From
the catalogues of our Catholic publishers
a list of about four hundred books can be
selected, tolerably well adapted for this
purpose. This, however, is about one-
third as many as an ordinary Sunday-
school require;?. We must also confess
it is not pleasant to be obliged to pay for
these about twice as much as Protestant
Sunday-schools do for books published
in the same style. But it may be replied
that they have societies possessing a large
capital, whose aim is to publish their

144

Ifew PuhHeathm,

books as cheap as possible, in order to

spread tbefii far and wide. True, And

\iby cannot the 5,000,000 CathoHcs in

the United States, with 4,000 ch jrches^

I and 2^500 priests, support a PubUcation

[ Society, with capital enough to publish

Sunday-school requisites as chenp as

' they ! This Class Book is printed on good

piiperi and \b not only raoro comidcte

ilian any other, but is furnish od much

cheapen

A IIisTORv or Englaxd fob tub Youwo.
A new edition^ revised. 12mo, pp,
373. Philadelphia : Pcs«r F. Cunning-
ham. 1806.

This is an American reprint of an Eng-
lish book, and England is spoken of
throughout it as ^* our country^ — an ex-
pression which will be very apt to lead
to misconceptions in the juvenile mind.
The unknown compiler seems to hnvo
gparcd no pains to mako the book unex-
ceptionable in a religious point of view,
for use in Catholic schools ; but w© can-
not commend it for clearness, and we
think it niigbt be advantageously weeded
of various nnecdotes and trivial details^
and of a great deal of turgid rhetoric.
There h need of a good English history
for our schools, but we do not believe
thi?! publie4it»*>u h destined to supply it
Bo far as our examination has gone, it is
full of crror.s. The account of the Ameri-
can Revolution is absurd — tlic very cause
of it being cgrcgiously misstated. The
fttory of the Crimean war is not much bet-
ter told, and the history of the Sepoy mu-
tiny in India is very careless and inaccu-
rata

|9ai WOiRMO?; PliOFDET AND UIS XT A REM ;

or, An Authentic History of Brigham
Young, his numerous Wives and Chil-
dren. By Mrs. C. V. Waite. 12mo,
280. New York: Hurd and
foughton. 1860.

ffo\

As Mrs. Waito resided for two years tn
the mid.st of the society which she has
undertaken to describe, and has also re-
ceived a great deal of information from
peraonn long in the service of Brtgham
Young, her account of the Mormon sys-
tem and its arch -priest may reasonably

be assumed as authentic*
who wants to read the dipguftf
of human imbecility and i^
which disfigures the history of*
ern civilijtalion, Mrs. Waito?
will, no doubt, be found suffix
and interesting. ^

Ma. Wi5KriELD. A Novel Br{
New -York : The Ament
Company. 1866.

The unknown author af fj
wliicb we can hardly call a I
apparently endeavored to m
and society in New-York. Ifl
has not bceu equal to his eX]

cxpai

Alpdon'So; or, Tub TmVm
GioN. A Catholic Tale, P,
tiingham, Philadelphia.

This is a very interesting an^
ive tale, designed to show " t^
able eflect.H which an irrrlii>Tni
of education will ii
Wo hope the talentc<i . ^

us other stories for our yoi^
equally good. We think, hoS
crowds her hero along too I
chnrrn of the story would bo inj
a more natural and easy coqcI
events. ^

ac*.

Froni HcTAD k Hovqv, i

uncollwted. By
12mo^ pp, 4^7 »od ii6.

V. Dovj^nni, Borton. Redmond, Ceni
Hf WIllADi C4irlvton. 1 vol. I8ii»&.

AsDiiKW J. Graham, NfirVortiL.

gmpblc Visitor. l!d]t«d uid pul
drcvr J. Oroham,

We have also received tha
Annual Report of the Trust^
Cooper Union for the Advaod
Science and Art; and tlie Tn
Annual Report of the Mercantil
Association of the City of lA
for IStJG.

J. J. OToxjfOK & Co., Newi
have in press and will soon
work entitled ^'^ Curious Queif
the Kev. Dr. Brnnn.

THE

CATHOLIC WOKLD.

VOL. IV., NO. 20.— NOVEMBER, 1866.

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.

IX.

A nXTHEB BXFUlSATIOV OF THE ST7-
FEBNATURAL OBDER.

It has been already remarked, that
ttelDcaniatioo is a more profound and
■tcratable mystery than even the
'tmty. The reason is that the trin-
^ is a Decessary truth, included in
fc Tery idea Qf God as most sim-
ple bemg and most pure act. The
Mmation is not a truth necessary
ii itself, bat only necessary on the
ifporitioo that it has been decreed
if God. The trinity of persons pro-
tteds from a necessity of nature in
God, the incarnation from an act of
ke will But the acts of the divine
he will are more mysterious and in-
eipGetble than those which proceed
Inn necessity of nature.

Witboot revelation the incarnation
vnU be inconceivable, and even
vhs it is disclosed by revelation, the
ttalogies by which it can be illustrated
nefiunt and imperfect. The union
^een soul and body in animal na-
^wod between the animal and spir-
M nature in man fiimish the cmly

VOL. IV. 10

analogies of anything like a hypo-
static union in the natural world. But
these analogies do not illustrate the
dark poiut in the mystery, to wit : the
union of two inteUigerU natures in one
nthsistence, or one common personal
principle of imputability to which the
acts of both are referrible. We have
but little difficulty in apprehending
that acts proceeding from two distinct
natures in man, the animal and the
spiritual, should be referred to one
principle of imputability or one per-
sonality. These acts are so very distinct
and diflTerent from each other, that
they evidently have no tendency to
become blended or confused, by the
absorption of one nature into the other.
But if we should try to conceive of a
hypostatic union between the angelic
and human natures in one person, it
would be impossible to avoid imagin-
ing that one intelligent nature would
be absorbed in the other. If there is
but one principle of imputability, how
can there be two distinct intelligent
voluntary operations 1 Our opinion
is, that a union of this kind between
two finite natures is impossible. The

146

PrMenu of the Affe*

possibility of assuming; a distinct in-
telligeiit iiaturo must then l)o1on<; to a
diviuu person only, and be included
in tlio infinitude of the divine essence.
The ditTiiHilty of unde rotund ing it lies
then in the incomprehensibility of the
divine essence. We apprehend noth-
ing in the divine essence distinctly,
except that which is apprehensible
through the analogy which created
essences bt*ar to it. Evidently that in
the divine essence which renders it
totally dissimilar from all created es-
sences cannot b(i represented by a
similitude in created essences. And
as the divine essence subsisting in the
second person renders it capable of
uiisumiiig human natiin* by an attri-
bute wliicli n'udri^ it totally dissimi-
lar fi'oni all linite personality, there
can be no analogy to it in linite
things. In order to understand this
it is necessary to nvall to mind a
principle laiil down by St. Thomas,
that we camiot atUrm anything,
wlietlirr In-ing, intelligence, vrill. per-
sona lily, or whairver other term of
tluniLrht wi' may jiropose, »»f (tod and
a creaiinv, M«fV «vi//v, liiai is, in the
same iileniieal srnse. The ossenoe of
CuhI d'.tK-i*s as really thun tin' spir-
itual os-icni'e of asigi'ls and human
souls as ii doe-s fi>vn liie e*senoe of
animal <iMiN and o t'maner. We aj"pn»-
luMul v\iia: the inli'lligeaee and ihe»ill
of ii\»«l are 0:1 ly through the a'jalojy
o{ Ir.suia'.i ia:flligenoi» a!id will, iu a
mo>i i:np,'!tVor and inavh'i|'.;ate niau-
ner. l:i i'.''-.v.-« Ive* !h' y a:v i:ii*.vn-
prel;;':*iMi 10 :!k' Imm.iu un lersM-i 1-
in J. I ■ 1 : '. •. \ ^ •-• \ e >s ;• a ot' of i vvkI as
ineoav»:\ '.•..':»'.:l''.i*, ,t >ai»: r-i^ri Ili^lMi*.
is >i:a.i.i.l '.■•..1: i'a:\;»'"ty of Iv •.-.•.^ ilie
|y*rso: .\*.:\ o:'v"^a:x.l iir.oVi^it-:'.: n:i-
l-.;:v « ..-.x-a i\»;*.>.;:.::i " :'■..' '.a^siirvof
ih-' l.x •>■ '*:.;.\" •.r"...^:\ V\:.' o";\ ;;:'.a;.^^v

r <

cal sense, but being dissimilar not onlj
in degree of intelligence but in the
very essence of intelligence, are ca-
pable of union in one personality.
There is no analogy, however, which
enables us to understand what this
difference is, because it would be 1
contradiction in terms to supporo is
the creature any analogy to thit
which is above all analogies and ii
peculiar to the divine nature as divine:
The utmost that reason can do \i to
apprehend, when the mystery of the
incarnation is proposed by revela-
tion, that the incomprehensibility of
the divine essence renders it imposii-
blc to judge that it cannot be livpo-
statically united to a created intelfi-
gent natui-e, and that it increases oar
ecnception of its hifinitudc or pleni-
tude of being to suppose that a divine
person can tenninate a created nature
as well as the nature which is self-
existing. All that reason can do then
is to demonstrate, after the mystery of
the inc:irnation is proposed, that the
impossibility of the incamatioo can-
not be demonstrated on the principles
of reason, and that it is therefore
credible on the nutliorlty of re velar
lion : and, by the illumination of
fai:h. i<> apprehend a certain degre*
o\' pn^babiliiy or verisimilitude in the
mysiory itself.

Oaoi* e-tablished, however, as a doy-
ma or timdamontal principle in tbeolO'
s:y. i:jj n»ason and titness in reference
t'.> the tiaal cause of the universe, the
h:irai>ay of all other f.icts and doclrinca
«!:h :r, and the grandeur which it
gi\«'s to :he divine ociinomy, can be
iv:.i'.:*iv. ly and abundantly proved Iff
r.iv.ov.al arvuraon:*.

Wi' k". »w ihat i: must be fitting aJ
w.*r:'.v ^f iho divine majesty to de-
.'ri\ ::.o iTuximation. lvN?auw he has
tl '•.'. ■•. \\.i: wo c:iTi also see that it is
■i \ 1 .1 why. We osin see that itbe-
r. - A'.-: jT^Ty G>i to exhaust his oBj-
•• -.^ •: >. • *. ; :>>iu;i:i J a work which**
-.: . •.v...-:.r.':-.vt^ o:' his incelUgenee anl
;v: ».'.\r: of the arohetvpe c<fr
I . • .1 :..s Wo.-i. Toshow hisrofd
•,-Ui: v.:d.x>ov in ^e$:o«izi^ the greaM^

ProUemt of- the Age.

t boon oo created nature. To
til his loTe in sucb a manner as
md the intolligeooe of his ra-
xeatores, hj communicating all
contained in filiation and the
ioo of the Spirit* so far as that
self possible. To glorifj and
he creature, by raising it 'as
as possible to an equality with
' in knowledge and beatitude,
reason for selecting the human
than the angelic nature for the
itic union is obvious from all
s preceded. Human nature is
ocosm, in which all grades of
ce are summed up and repre-
In taking human nature the
assumes all created nature,
le lowest to the highest For,
(fa the angelic nature is superior
hnman, it is only superior to it
ain respects, and not as a ra-
essence. Moreover, this supe-
18 in part only temporary, en-
while the human nature is in
cess of explication ; and as to
t, the inferiority of the human
is counterbalanced by the super-
elevation given to it in the hy-
I union, which raises the natur-
an operation of the soul of our
esus Christ far above that of
)elic nature. Although, there-
the series of grades in the na-
der of existence, the angelic na-
above the human, it is subor-
to it in the supernatural order,
nder of the incarnation, and in
to the final cause. For it is
I the human nature united to the
nature in the person of the
that the angelic nature com-
its return to Grod and union

elevation of created nature to
loatatic union with God in the
if the Word introduces an en-
ew principle of life into the in-
t oniverse. Hitherto, we have
red in the creative act a regular
» in the nature of created ex-
f from the lowest to the highest
tade 18 determined to a certain
in bemg superior in in-

147

tensity to that of the one below it, and
to a mode of activity corresponding to
its essence. There can be no grade of
existence in its essence superior to the
rational or intelligent nature, which is
created in the similitude of that which
is highest in the divine essence. No
doubt, the specific and minor grades
included under the universal generic
grade of rationality might be indefi-
nitely multiplied. As the angels differ
from man, and the various orders of
the angelic hierarchy differ from each
other, so God might continue to create
€ui infinitum new individuals or new
species, each differing from all others,
and all arranged in an ascending series,
in which each grade should be superior
in certain particulars to all below it.
It is evidently possible that a created
intelligence should be made to progress
from the lowest stage of development
continuously and for ever. Let us fix
our thought upon the most distant
and advanced limit in this progression
which we are able to conceive. It is
evident that God might have created an
intelligent spirit in the beginning at
that point, as the starting-point of his
progression, and might have created at
the same time other intelligent spirits
at various distances from this point in
a descending series. Suppose now
that this is the case, and that the low-
est in the scale progresses until he
reaches the starting-point of the most
advanced. The one who began at this
advanced point will have progressed
meanwhile to another point equally
distant, and will preserve his relative
superiority. But even at this point,
Grod might have created him at first,
with an(4her series of intervening
grades at all the intermediate points
which he has passed over in his pro-
gressive movement. We may carry on
this process as long as we please, with-
out ever coming to a limit at which we
are obliged to stop. For the creation
being of necessity limited, and the
creative power of God unlimited, it is
impossible to equalize the two terms,
or to conceive of a creation which is
equal to God as creator. Neverthe-

148

ProUemt of ih» Age.

less, all posBiblo irrades of rationality
arc like and equal to each other as le-
epccts the essential propriety of ration-
ality, and never rise to a grade which
is essentially higher than tliat of ra-
tional nature. The only difference
pos.^iblc is a difference in the mode in
which the active force of the intellect
is exercised, and in the number of ob-
jects to which it is applicable, or some
othiT specific quality of the same kind.
Whatever may be the increase which
rational natun^ can be suppostxl to re-
ceive, it is only the evolution of the
essential principle wliich constitutes it
rational, and is thcR'tbre common to
all S|)ecie8 and individuals of the ra-
tional order. Althoup;Ii, therefore, Grod
caimot create a spirit so ])errect that
it cannot l>e conceived to be more per-
fect in certain |)articulars, yet it is
nevertheless true that God cannot
create anythinflj wliich is penorically
more {lerfect tlmu spirit or intelligent
substance. From this it follows as a
nec<»8sary consequence, that Grod can-
not create a nature whicli by its es-
sential principles demands its last
complement of hoxw^ in a divine
person, or naturally exists in a hy-
|K)static union with the divine na-
tun.'. For rational nature, wliich is
the hi<rhest created genus, antl the
neai*est possible to the nature of Gotl,
— ^" l[)sius enim et grnus sumus,"* —
dev<'lojM.'(l to all eternity, would never
rise abov'e itself, or elicit an act which
would cause it to terminate u|>on a di-
vine person, ami bring it into a hypo-
static union with God. Pro<luce a line,
)mr:illel to nn infinite stniight line, to
infinity, and it will never meet it or
come any nearer to it. The very es-
sence of created spirit requires that it
should be detennined to a moile of ap-
pn'liending (iodby an image n^flected
in the cn^ation. The activity of the
ercat<Ml intelUgenci* must proceed fur
ever in this line, and has no tendency
to coincide with the act of the divine
intcllig«;nce in which (4otl contemiihites
immediately his own essence. Increase
as nnich as you will the perfiH^tion of
• '' Fur w« are alto his off«prliig,*' Acti zvU. Sol

the created image, it remuns alwaji
infinitely distant fiom the nncreated,
personal image of himself which the
Father contemplates in the Word, and
loves in the Holy Spirit, within theci^
cle of the blessed Trinity. It has beei
proved in a previous number that ia-
finite intelligence is identical with thi
infinite intelligible in God. If a bong
could be created which by its essenoe
should be intelligent by the immediaie
vision of the divine essence, it would be :
intelligent tn bcj and therefore posssa \
within its own essence its imme^ilB^ I
intelligible object, which, by the t«in
of the supposition, is the divine essene&
It would possess in itself sanctity, !»
mutability, and beatitude. It wouU
be, in other words, beatified preciselr
because existing, that is, incapable of
existing in any defective state, sol
therefore incapable of error, sin, or
suffering. And as, by the terms, it ii
what it is, by its essence, its csscnei
and existence are identical ; it is ei-
s(mtially most pure act, essentially ex-
isting, therefore self-existent, ncoettiiy
being, or identical with God. It il
theivfore impossible for God to crate
a rational nature which is constimied
rational by the immediate intuition of
the divine essence. For by the feiy
terms it would be a creature and God
at the same time. It would be one of
the persons in the unity of the dirine
nature, and yet have a nature totallf
distinct. In the natural oider, tben,it
is impossible that a created natne
should either at its beginning, or in the
progress of its evolution, demand asiti
due and necessary complement of being
a divine personality. Personality ii
the lost complement of rational natnra
Divine nature demands divine person
ality. Finite nature demands finite
personality. It is evident, thcrefoiei
that there cannot bo a finite natare^
however exalteil, which cannot come to
its complete evolution within its owl
essence, or which can explicate oat of
the contents of its being an act which
necessarily terminates upon a divine
person, so as to bring it into a hyfMH
etatic union with the divine natnra.

PhMitm of the Age.

149

as go back a little in the scale
^9 in order to develop this prin-
lore fhlly. Lifeless matter is
s of indefinite increase in its own
bat this increase has no ten-
to elevate it to the grade of
:ive life. A new and different
le of organization must be intro-
in order to construct from its
elements a vegetative form, as,
tance, a flower. So, also, the
tion of vegetative life has no
rj to generate a sentient prin-
The plant may go on producing
, flowering, germinating, and
idng its species for ever, but its
stivitj can never produce a sen-
Rily or proceed to that degree of
km that it requires a sentient
B its last complement or the
form of its organic life. Sup-
plant or flower to receive a
t soul; this soul must be im-
ely created bv God, and it would
principle or form of a new life,
in relation to the natural, vege-
life of the flower, would be
latoral, elevating it to an order
above that which constitutes it

IT.

mtient creature, as a dog or a
18 no tendency to explicate from
islttutiTe principle of its animal
itelligence, or to attain^ a state
(tence in which an intelligent
ility is due to it' as its last com-
t If the animal soul could
1 intelligent personality, it must
, hypostatic union with an intel-
latore distinct from itself, which
ben become the suppontanij or
le of imputability to the animal
The animal would then be
d to a state which would be
atoral, relatively to the animal
or entirely above the plane of
tral development
ke manner, the rational nature
tendency or power to rise above
Mr to do more than explicate
ineiple which constitutes it ra-
If it is elevated to a higher
1ft most be by a direct act of
I— cei an immediate interven-

tion of the creator, producing in ii an
act which could never be produced by
the explication of its rationality, even
though it should progress to all eter-
nity. This act is supernatural in the
absolute sense. That is, it lies in an
order above created nature as a tota-
lity, and above all nature which might
be created ; supra omnem naturam
creatcan atque creahilem.

It is beyond the power even of
divine omnipotence to create a rational
nature which, by its intrinsic, consti-
tutive principle of intelligence, is affili-
ated to the Father through the Holy
Spirit. Such a nature would be equal
to the Word, and another Word, and
therefore equal to the Father, or, in
other words, would be a divine nature
although created; which is absurd.
The Father can have but one Son,
eternally begotten, not made ; and the
only possible way in which a xsreated
nature can be elevated' to a strictly
filial relation to the Father, is by a
hypostatic union with the divine nature
of the Son in one person, so that there
is a communication of properties be-
tween the two natures, and but one
principle of imputability to which all
the divine and human attributes and
acts can be referred. This union can
be effected only by a direct interven-
tion of Grod, or by the Word assuming
to himself a created nature. For ra-
tional nature finds its last complement
of personality, its subsistentia, or prin-
ciple of imputability, within its own
limits, which it never tends to tran-
scend, even by infinite progression.
The human nature individual^ in the
person of Jesus Christ, by its own
intrinsic principles was capable of
being completed in a finite personality,
like every other individual human
nature. The fact that the place of the
human personality is supplied by a
divine person, and the human nature
thus completed only in the divine, is
due to the direct, divine act of the
Word, and is therefore supernatural.
In this supernatural relation it becomes
the recipient, so to speak, of the divine
vital current^ and participates in the

150

ProhUnii of the Age.

act in which the divine life is con-
summated, which is the procession of
tlie Son and Holy Spirit from the
Father. This act consists radically
and essentially in the immediate con-
templation of the divine essence.
Created intelligence, therefore, cle-
vuted to the hypostatic union, contem-
plates the essence of God directly,
without any intervening medium, by
the immediate intuition or beatific vis-
ion of God.

Thus, in the incarnation, the crea-
tion returns back to God and is united
to him in the most perfect manner, by
participating in the good of being in a
way subliuK^ above all human concep-
tion, exhausting even tlie infinite idea
of God. Created intelligence is bea-
tified, glorified, and deifieil. In Jesus
Ciirist, man, in whosu essence is in-
cluded the equivalent of all creation,
and God meet in the unity of one
person. The nature of God becomes
the nature of mnn in the second per-
son, who is truly man ; and the nature
of msin becomes the nature of God in
the same j)erson, who is truly God.
Crration, therefore, attains its final end
and returns to Gixl as final causwn of the acts of
his omnipotence, the sunnnit of tlie
creative act, the completion of all
grades of existence, and the full reali-
zation of tlie divine archetype.

In Jesus Christ, the creative act is
carried to the apex of possibility. In
his human nature, therefore, he is the
most pre-eminent of all cn'atures, and
surpasses them all, not only singly but
colh»ctively. Ho has the ]»rimogen-
iture,and the dominicm over all things,
the entire universe of existences being
pubonlinated to him. N<'vertheless,
liis perfection is ni»t eom|)letr'd mendy
by that which he po.ssesses within the
limits of his individual humanity. He
is the summit of creation, the lu^ad of
the intelligent universe, the link nearest
to (i,'Ml in the chain of created exis-
tences. The universe, therefore, by
virtue of the principle of order and
unity which pervades it, ought to com-

municate with him throagfa a saiier-
natural order, so that the gradation
in the works of God may be regular
and perfect. The chasm between ra-
tional nature in its natural state and
the same nature raised to the hvpo-
Btatic union is too jprat, and demandB
to be filled up by some intenncfliate
grades. Having taken created nature,
which is by its very constitution iidapt-
ed to fellowship between iodividuoli
of the same kind ; and, specificallj,
human nature, which is constituted io
relations of race and family, the Son
of God ought, in all congruity, to iuiTe
l)rethren and companions capable of
sharing with him in beatitudij and
glory. Being specifically human aod
of one blood with all mankind, it is
fitting that he should elevate lii? on
rac*e to a share in his glor)'. Bein^
generically of the same intelleciQil
nature with theangela, it is also fitting
that he should elevate them to the
same glory. This can only be done
by granting them a partici|)ation in
that supernatunil order of intelli•^*Jlce
and life which he possesses by virtue of
the hypostatic union ; that is, a ]tarti-
cipation in the immediate, beatific vir
ion of the divine essence.

This supernatural order is denomi-
nated the oj-der of regeneration and
grace. It is cognate with the order
of the iiy[H>static union, but not iden-
tical with it. The personality of the
divine AVonl is communicated only to
tht; individual human nature of Jesos
Chri>t, who is not only the fir$t4)orD
but the only-begotten Son of God.
G(xl is incarnate in Christ alone. The
union of his created substance withtbe
divine substance, without any pe^
mixture or confusion, in one ])erson, ^
something inscrutable to reason. Th*
knowledge*, sanctity, beatitude, ao^
glory of his hinnan nature are eficc**
of this union, but are not it. The^*
efieets, which are due to the humanil/
of Christ as being the nature of a d**
vine pei-son, and are its rightful aJ>*
necessary premgatives, are commuo**
cable, as a matter of grace, to other
individuals, personally distiDct fxoiD

ProNenu of ike Age.

151

That is to say, sanctity, bea^
and glory do not require as the
arj condition of their communi-
7 the communication of a divine
lality, but are compatible with
dstence of an indefinite number
itinct, finite personalities. All
rational creatures, however, who
e subjects of this communicated
are thereby assimilated to the
f Grod, and made partakers of an
ive sonship. This adoptive son>
I an inchoate and imperfect state
-filiation with the Son of Grod,
is completed and made perfect
hypostatic union. The order of
, therefore, though capable of
ting without the incarnation, and
tpending on it as a physical caase,
oly subsist as an imperfect order,
mnnot have in itselif a metaphy-
Snality. The incarnation being
t, the universe does not attain an
netaphysically final, or actualise
erfection of the ideal archetype,
highest mode of the communi-
i of the good of being, the most
% reproduction of the operation
)d ad introy in his operation ad
which the Father contemplates
Word as possible, remains un-
id. Those who hold, therefore,
he incarnation was not included
original creative decree of Grod
oaaintain that in that decree God
It contemplate an end in creat-
letaphysically final. They are
d to suppose another decree log-
snbsequent to the first, by virtue
ich the universe is brought to an
netaphysically final in order to
' the partial failure of the angelic
) and the total failure of human
i to attain the inferior, prefixed
r the first decree. Nevertheless,
decrees of God are eternal, God
B had in view, even on this hypo-
, the incarnation as the com-
1 of his creative act ; and only
be occasion which the failure of
ic plan through sin presented to
■oe one more perfect Billuart,
vre, as the interpreter of the
iti school, maintains that God

revealed the incarnation to Adam be-
fore his fall, though not the connection
which the fulfilment of the divine pur-
pose had with his sin as its conditio
sine qua non. If this latter view la
adopted, it cannot be held that the
angelic and human natures were cre-
ated and endowed with supernatural
grace in the express view of the in-
carnation, or that the angels hold, and
that man originally held, the title to
glorification from Jesus Christ as their
head, and the meritorious cause* of
original grace. Nevertheless, as the
incarnation introduces a new and
higher order into the universe, elevat-
ing it to an end metaphysically final
of which it previously fell short, all
angels and" all creatures of every
grade are subordinated to Jesus Christ,
who is the head of the creation, re-
uniting all things to the Father in his
person.

This explanation is made in defer-
ence to the common opinion, although
the author does not hold this opinion,
and in order that those who do hold
it may not feel themselves bound to
reject the whole argument respecting
the relation of the creative act to the
incarnation.

It is in regard to the doctrine of
original grace, or the elevation of the
rational nature to that supernatural
order whose apex is the lijrpostatic
union, that Catholic theology comes
into an irreconcilable conflict with
Pelagianism, Calvinism, and Jansen-
ism. These three systems agree in
denying the doctrine of original grace.
They maintain tlmt rational nature
contains in its own constituent princi-
ples the germ of development into
the state which is the vltimatum of the
creature, and the end for which God
created it, and was bound to create it,
if he created at all. They differ,
however, fundamentally as to the
principles actually constitutive of ra-
tional nature. The Pelagian takes
human nature in its present condition
as his type. The advocates of the
other two systems take an ideal human
nature, which has become csseotiaUy

158

Protknu of ike Age.

oorrnpted by the fall, as their type.
Therefore, d^e Pelagian says that hu-
man nature, as it now is, has in itself
the principle of perfectibility by the
explication and development of its
essence. But the Galvinist and Jan-
senist say that human nature as it
was first created, or as it is restored
by grace to its primal condition, has
the principle of perfectibility ; but as it
now is in those who have not been
restored by grace, is entirely destitute
of it. Tlie conception which these
opponents of Catholic doctrine have
of the entity of that highest ideal
state to which rational nature is de-
termined, varies as the ratio of their
distance from the Catholic idea.
Those who are nearest to it retain the
oonception of the beatific union with
God, which fades away in those who
recede farther, until it becomes chang-
ed into a mere conception of an ideal-
ised earthly felicity.

The Catholic doctrine takes as its
point of departure the postulate, that
rational nature of itself is incapable
of attaining or even initiating a move-
ment towards that final end, which
has been actually prefixed to it as its
terminus. It needs, therefore, from
the beginning, a superadded gifl or
grace, to place it in the plane of its
destiny, which is supernatural, or
above all that is possible to mere na-
ture, explicated to any conceivable
limit. At this point, however, two
great schools of theology diverge
from each other, each one of which is
further subdivided as they proceed.

The radical conception of one
school is, that nature is in itself an in-
oomplete thing, constituted in the order
of its genesis in a merely inchoate
capacity for receiving regeneration in
the supernatural order. Remaining
in the order of genesis, it is in a state
of merely inchoate, undeveloped, inex-
plicable existence, and therefore in-
capable of attaining its destination.
There is, therefore, no end for which
God could create rational existence,
except a supernatural end. The natural
demands the sopematural, the order

of genesis demands the ord
generation, and the wisdom t
ness of God require him U
on all rational creataree tl
cognate to the beatific visioa
abling them to attain it.

The radical conception of \
school is, that rational natur
requires only the explication
fection of its own constituent p
and may be left to attain it
in the purely natural orde
elevation of angels and me
plane of a supernatural des
therefore, a purely gratuitouf
sion of the supreme goodness
in view, as some would add
merit of the incarnate Word.

These difierent theories
tangled and interlaced wii
other, and with many difieren
tricnte questions related to \
such a way as to make a
through which it is not easy i
sure path. It is necessary, 1
to try, or else to avoid the
altogether.

The obscurity of the whole •
is situated in the relation of
intelligence to its object wh
stitutes it in the intelligent or
order. It is evident tliat a
substance is constituted an in
principle by receiving potent
the act connoted by this reL
the subject to its object, and
cated by the reduction of thi
tiality into act. The end of in
spirit is to attain to its int
object, by the act of intelligei
the foresight of this, the expos
the relation between intellige
the intelligible has been plai
in this discussion.

It is agreed among all
theologians : 1. That creates
gencc can, by the explicatio
own constitutive principles, s
th^ knowledge of Grod as cau
sima ; or, that God is, per #e,
mate object of reason. 2. Tfa
is a mode of the relation of
gence to its ultimate object, or
a permaaent state of Uie intu

Problems of the Age.

153

God, bj a created spirit, called the in-
tuidTe, beatific vision of the divine
eflseoce, which can be attained only
\tj a sapematural elevation and illu-
minatioo of the intelligcnde.

The point of difference among
theologians relates to the identity or
difierence of the relations just noted,
b that relation which intelligence has
fetu \o God, as its ultimate ohject,
the relation which is completed by
npemaniral elevation, or not? If
Mt, what is the distinction between
Ifaemi' Establish their identity, and
700 have established the theory which
WIS mentioned in tlie first place above.
Establish their difference, and you
hare established the second theory.

If the first theory is established,
ntioDal creatures are %p90 facto in a
npematural order. The natural
Older is merely the inchoation of the
sopenuitaral, cannot be completed
ihhoat it, and cannot attain its end
vithoat a second immediate interven-
tkm of God, equal to the act of crea-
tinD.bj which God brings back to him-
lelf, as final cause, the creature which
)ffoeeeded from him as first cause.
Hiii second act is regeneration;
lad creation, therefore, implies and
fattods regeneration. It follows
from this, that reason is incapable of
Wng developed or explicated by the
aere concurrence of Grod with its
pndple of activity, or his concur-
ittee with second causes acting upon
ii) that is, by the continuance and con-
^nmation of the creative, generative
ioftiz which originally gave it and
<(kr second causes existence. A
Kgeocrative influx is necessary, in
Oder to bring its latent capacity into
•etioo, and make it^ capable of con-
tmplating its proper object, which is
God, as seen by an intuitive vision.
, One great advantage of this theory
'* loppoBed to be, that it leaves the
i^itttilists no ground to stand upon,
^ demonstrating the absolute neces-
■^ of the supernatural, that is, of
'cvehuion, grace, the church, etc
Ih presupposes that the theory can
liedenioiistriited. K it cannot be, the

attempt to do too much recoils upon
the one who makes it, and injures his
cause. Beside this, it may be said
that the proposed advantage can be as
efiectually secured by proving that the
natural order is actually subordinated
in the scheme of divine Providence,
as it really exists, to a supernatural end,
without professing to prove that it
must be so necessarily.

The great positive argument in
favor of this hypothesis is, that rational
nature necessarily seeks God as its
ultimate object, and therefore longs
for tliat clear, intellectual vision of
him called the beatific. If this be
true, the question is settled for ever.
Those who seek to establish its truth
state it under various forms. One
way of stating it is, that reason seeks
the universal, or the explanation of
all particular effects, in the causa a/-
tissima. This is the doctrine of St.
Thomas. Grod is the causa aUissimay
the universal principle, and therefore
reason seeks for Grod.

Again, it is affirmed that there is a
certain faculty of super-intelligence,
which apprehends the super^intclligi-
ble order of being, not positively, but
negatively, by apprehending the limita-
tion of everything intelligible. In-
telligence is therefore sensible of a
want, a vacuum, an aimless, objectless
yearning for something unknown and
unattainable ; showing that God has
created it for the purpose of satisfying
this want, and filling this void, by
bringing intelligence into relation to
himself as its immediate object, in a
supernatural mode.

In a more popular mode, this same
idea is presented under a countless
variety of forms and expressions, in
sermons, spiritual treatises, and poems,
as a dissatisfaction of the soul with
every kind of good attainable in this
life, vague longing for an infinite and
supreme good, a plaintive cry of hu-
man nature for the beatitude of the
intuitive vision of God. ^ Irrequietum
est cor nostrum donee requiescat in
te ** — **^ Our heart is unrestful until it
finds repose in thee," is the language

164

Ptablenu of ike Age.

of St AugustiDe, which is echoed and
reechoed on every side.

These considerations are not without
great weight; neyertheless, thej do
not appear to us sufficient to prove
conclusivelj the hypothesis in support
of which thej are adduced, or to over-
balance other weighty considerations
on the opposite side.

Reason seeks for the causa alHsstma,
but it remains to be proved that it
seeks for any otlier knowledge of it
but that which is attainable by a mode
connatural to the created spirit.

Reason is conscious of its own
limitation. But this does not prove
that it aspires to transcend this limi-
tation. Beatified spirits are conscious
of their own limitation. Those who
are in the lowest grade are aware of
numerous grades above them, and the
highest are awnre of their inferiority
to the exalted humanity of Jesus
Christ, united to the divine nature in
his person. All together, including
Jesus Christ himself, as man, are
aware of an infinite incomprehensi-
bility in the divine nature. In the
wonls of the g'^J^test of all mystic
theologians, St. John of the Cross:
** They who know him most perfectly,
l)ercoive most clearly that he is infin-
itely incomprehensible. To know
Grod bcst» is to know he is incompre-
hensible ; for those who have tlie
loss clear vision do not perceive so
distinctly as the others how greatly he
transcomU their vision." ♦

Beatified spirits do not feel any
void within themselves, or any uns:it-
isfied longing for the comprehension
of the 8ujH>r-intelligible. Neither do
they a>pin» even to those degret^* of
cKvirer vision which are actually con-
ceiUnl to spirits of a higher onler than
their own. AVhy then should a ni-
tional on^aiuro mxH*ssarily desiix* to
tmnsivnd its own pn>]M^r and oiuinntu-
ral nunio of intolHginuv ? The appre-
heiisi«Mi of the supoi^inielliirible shows
that the intolUvt onnnoi U^ s;itisfi(*il
with a limitation of itself to a more

»Ui\u «tL OltUw K.\. t(oL

knowledge c£ second causes
contingent — that it must thi
Grod, and apprehend in booh
infinite, eternal, necessary b
attributes of the creator :
cause of all things. But it
show that it must apprchem
the most perfect way possib
less in such a way that he
remain always infinitely \h
comprehension.

The dissatisfaction of th
heart may proceed in great
from the fact that God purp
quiets it by withholding frc
good it naturally seeks, in
compel it to seek for sup
good. Another cause of i
most persons have committed
sins themselves, and are
involved in the consequenc
sins of others, that they cann(
the full measure even of tha
enjoyment of which human
capable. That the human h(
misery and unhappiness tumi
ly toward the hope of a suprc
tude in the contemplation of (
is revealed to the saints in bet
be owing to the fact that God
poses this beatitude to men,
longing for it in their souls bj
natural grace.

The question, therefore^ i
this, as has been repeatedlj
ready, What is the principle cc
of the intelligent life and act
created spirit? When this
is evolved into act, the crea
fultils its type, and realises its
feet ion in its own order,
cordinsr to the preliminary dc
have laid down, this is an acti
to apprehend the image of C
creation, or to contemplate
image of God which is a fin
tude of the infinite, nncreat
of C^.l, that is to say, the W
tifio c^^n temptation is a c
tion of this infinite, nncrea:
without any intervening me
is an intellectual operation
Ci\^ is Iniih the object mnd tin
It i< noi iherelbre the openU

Ptohhms of the Age,

155

perfects created intelligeDce in its own
proper order, but one which elevates it
above that order, giving it a participa-
tion in the divine intelligence itself.
Created intelligence is perfected in its
own proper order by its own natural
operation ; and although the interven-
tion of God is necessary in order to
conduct it to that perfection, so that it is
strictly true that a supernatural force
18 necessary to the iniiiation, explication,
and consummation of the natural order
of intelligence, yet this does not elevate
it to a supernatural mode and state of
actiyity in the strict and theological
sense of the word. Created intelli-
gence is perfected by the contempla-
tkm of the Creator through the crea-
ting and has no tendency or aspiration
to rise any higher. True, it has an
essential capacity to become the sub-
ject of a divine operation elevating it to
the immediate intuition of God, or it
never could be so elevated. This is
tbe really strong argument in favor of
the hypothesis that God, if he creates
St all, must create an intelligent order
detenniued to the beatific union. It is
equally strong in favor of the hypothe-
cs, that he must complete his creative
let in the incarnation, because created
t»tnre is essentially capable of the hy-
pdtalic union. For what purpose is
this capacity ] Docs it not indicate a
demand for the order of regeneration,
ttod the completion of this order in the
iacamation ? It is not our purpose to
uswer this question definitely, but to
kare it open, as it has no practical
^ng upon the result we are desirous
of obtaining. Presupposing, however,
^t Grod determines to adopt ilie sys-
^ of absolute optimism in creating,
^ to bring the universe to an end me-
^hysically final, as he actually has
teennined to do, this question, as we
^e previously stated, must be aii-
^red in the affirmative. There is no
"metaphysical finality short of the hy-
postatic union of the created with the
BQcreated nature, which alone is the
adequate, objective extern isation of the
eternal idea in the mind of God. The
Betaphysicaly, generic perfection of the

universe demands the incarnation, with
its appropriate concomitauts. But th'is
demand is satisfied by the elevation of
one individual nature to the hypostatic
union, and the communication of the
privileges due to this elevated nature
to one or more orders of intelligent
creatures containing each an adequate
number of individuals. It does not
require the elevation of all intelligent
orders or all individuals, but admits of
a selection from the entire number of
created intelligences of a certain pri-
vileged class. It is only on the sup-
position that God cannot give an intel-
ligent nature its due perfection and fe-
licity without conceding to it the beati-
fic vision, that we are compelled to be-
lieve that Grod cannot create intelligent
spirits without giving them the opi)or-
tunity of attaining supernatural beati-
tude. And it is mercly this List sup-
position against which we have been
contending.

The view we have taken, that ra-
tional nature precisely o^ such is not
necessarily created merely in order to
become the subject of elevating grace,
but may be determined to an end which
does not require it to transcend its natur-
al condition, comports fully witii llie Ca-
thohc dogma of sanctifying grace. The
church teaches that alDliation to God
by grace is a pure boon or favor gra-
tuitously conferred by God according
to his good pleasure and sovereign
will. It is not due to natun?, or a ne-
cessary consequence of creation. The
beginning, progress, and consummation
of this adoptive filiation is Irom the
grace of Grod, both in reference to an-
gels and men. It was by grace that
the angels and Adam were placed in
the way of attaining the beatific vision,
just as much as it is by grace that men
ai-e redeemed and saved since the falL
If rational nature cannot be exfdicated
and brought to a term suitable for it,
which satisfies all its exigencies, with-
out this grace, it is not easy to see how
it can be called a grace at all, since
grace signifies gratuitous favor. Ra-
ther it would be something due to na-
ture, which the goodness of God bound

156

PrMem of Urn Af%.

him to coDfer when he had created it
It would be the mere complement of
creation, and an essential part of the
continuity of the creative act as much
as the act of conservation, by virtue of
which the soul is constituted immortaL
In this case, it wonld be very difficult
to reconcile the doctrine of original sin,
and the doom of those who die in it be-
fore the use of reason, with the justice
and goodness of God. It would be
difficult abo to explain the whole series
of doctrinal decisions which have ema-
nated from the Holy See, and have
been accepted by the universal church,
in relation to the Jansenist errors, all of
which easily harmonise with the view
we have taken.

Moreover, the plain dogmatic teach-
ing of the church, that man, as he is
now bom, is " saltem negative aversa-
tus a Deo/' " at least negatively averted
from Grod,** and absolutely incapable of
even the first movement of the will to
turn back to him without prevenicnt
grace, cannot be explained on the
theory we are opposing without re-
sorting to the notion of a positive de-
pravation of human nature by the fall,
a notion completely irreconcilable with
rational principles. If rational nature
as such is borne by a certain impetus
toward God as possessed in the beatific
vision, it will spring toward him of it-
self and by its own intrinsic principles,
as soon as he is cxtrinsically revealed
to it, without grace. To say that it
does 60, is precisely the error of the
Semipebgians which is condemned by
the church. It is certain that it does
not ; and tliercfore we must explain its
inability to do so, either with the Cal-
vinists and Jansenists by maintaining
that its intrinsic principles are totally
perverted tand depraved, or by main-
taining tliat rational nature, as such, is
determined by its intrinsic impetus to
an inferior mode of apprehending and
loving God as its last end, which is be-
low the plane of the supernatural.

This view accords fully with the
teachings of the great mystic writers,
who arc the* most profound of all phi-
losophers and theologians. They all

teach most distinctly, that when
leads a soul info a state of supema
contemplation it has an almost ui
querable repugnance and reluctao
follow him, and is thrown into ai
scure night, in which it undergoes
told struggles and suffering:) beft
can become fit for even that din
imperfect light of contemplation v
it is capable of receiving in fhif
Why is it that the human soul 1
toward the supernatural good
when excited, illuminated, and atl
ed by the grace of God, and even
with so much difficulty ? Why
it so easily and of preference turn x
from it, unless it is, that it natu
seeks to attain its object by a i
more connatural to its own intr
and constitutive principles ?

The conclusion we draw is,
rational nature of itself is capat
attaining its proper perfection
felicity, without being elevated a
its own order, by the mere cxplic
of its rationality, and aspires no hi
but even prefers to remain whe
is. The fact that it is in a state v
in comparison with the state of e
tion is merely inchoate existence
is in pofeTitid to a state not realise
(ictu, does not show that its felici
the good order of the universe req
it to be elevated any higher, unl
is elected as a subject of elev
grace.* God alone is (tctu* puriu
without any admixture of potent!
The finite is always inchoate an*
tential, because finite. Its very ni
implies what is called metaph}
evil, or a limitation of the posse
of good, in act. Every finite n\
except that of the incarnate Wc
limited, not only in respect to tb
finite, but also in re8i)ect to some ^
finite nature superior to itself,
proper perfection consists ill the
session of good, with that limifa

* ThU do«s not mean that any human beini
liberty to choose to decline proffered grace
human race en m(UM if elected to ip'iio*, <
least all tboie to whom the faith is prupoae
the proffer of irracc, with a precept to ace
Moreover, God haa not provided any order
the ■upernatural for mankind in which the n
fttuln Ita proper p«rCectioa aad friMtj.

ProNemi of the Age.

159

which the will of God has prefixed to
it as its tenn. The perfectloa and
order of the universe, as a whole, are
ooQsdtuted bj the subordination and
hannoDj of aQ its parts in reference
to the predetennined end. The indi-
Tidaai felicity of a rational creature
and his due relation to the final cause
of the universe, do not require his
beinv elevated to the utmost summit
of existence of which he is capable,
imless God has predetermined him to
that place. The mere inert capacity
of receiving an augmentation or eleva-
tion of his intellectual and voluntary
operation does not give him any ten-
dencTto exceed his actual limit, unless
that inert capacity begins to be actual-
ized, or unless the principle of a new
dcTelopment is implanted and vital-
iiei The inert capacity of being
miited to the divine nature by the
hypostatic union, is actualised only in
Qirist. I^ therefore, rational nature
coold not attain its proper end and
completion without the utmost actuali-
tttimi of its passive capacity, Christ
akoe vould attain his final end. We
most certainly admit, however, that the
hlessed in heaven all attain their final
^ and a perfect beatitude, each one
in his own degree. We are not to un-
derstand, therefore, that the relation
of the creation to God as final cause
taosists solely and purely in the return
of the creature to God in the most
tthlime manner possible, and that
everything which exists is created
lolely as a means to that end. If this
*we so, the hypostatic union of the
I>nnan to the divine nature in the per-
son of Jesus Christ would be the sole
terminus of the creative act, the only
*8d proposed by God in creating.
Nothing else could or would have been
cheated, except as a means to that
*od. The rest of creation, however,
<^not contribute to that end. The
^ion of the human nature to the di-
^e in Christ and its filiation to God,
^ which it is beatified, glorified, and
tofied, is completely fiilifilled within
i^lf ; and the rest of creation adds
BotUngto it. If GU)d had no other

end in view, in the reproduction of the
immanent act within himself by a com-
munication of himself ad extra^ except
the hypostatic union, he would have
created only one perfect nature for
that purpose. The beatification and
glorification of the adopted brethren of
Christ must be therefore included in
the end of creation.

This is not all, however, that is in-
cluded in it. The supernatural order
includes in itself a natural order which
is not absorbed into it, but which has
its own distinct existence. Gratia
supponit naturamy grace supposes na-
ture, but does not supersede or ex-
tinguish it. The inferior intellectual
operations of our Lord are not super-
seded by his beatific contemplation,
nor do they contribute to its clearness
of intuition. The operation of his
animal soul — that is, of the principle
within his rational soul which contains
in an eminent mode all the perfection
that is in a soul purely animal, and
adapts his rational soul to be the form
of a body— continues also, together with
the activity of the senses and of the
active bodily life. This operation
does not conduce to the perfection of
the act of beatific contemplation, which
does not require the mediation of the
senses. The same is true of the in-
ferior, natural operations of all beati-
fied angels and men. If supernatural
beatitude were the exclusive end of
the creation, there would be no reason
why these inferior operations should
continue, any more than the exercise
of faith, hope, patience, fortitude, or
works of merit, which, being exclu-
sively ordained as means for attaining
beatitude, cease when the end is gain-
ed. The beatific act would swallow
up the entire activity of the beatified,
and all inferior life would cease. For
the same reason, all corporeal and ma-
terial organization would be swept out
of the way as a useless scafiblding, and
only beatified spirits, exclusively occu-
pied in the immediaie contemplation
of Grod, would continue to exist for
ever.

This is not so, however. The body

158

PirobUms of the Age.

19 to rise again and live for eyer. The
universe is to remain for ever, with all
its various grades of existence, includ-
ing even the lowest, or those whibh
are purely material. There is there-
fore a natural order coexisting with
the supernatural in a subordinate rela-
tion to it — a minor and less principal
part, but still an integral part of the
divine, creative plan. There is a
eognitio mahUina and a cognitio veS'
vertina^ a matutinal and vesperal
Knowledge, in the blessed; the one
being the immediate intuition of the
trinity in unity, the other the mediate
intuition of tlie idea or infinite arche-
type of creation in God, through his
creative act. There is a natural intel-
lectual life in the angels, and a natural
intellectual and physical life in man,
in the beatific state. The natural
order is preserved and perfected in the
supernatural order, with all its beauty
and felicity— -with its science, virtue,
love, friendship, and society. The ma-
terial world is everlasting, togetlier
with the spiritual. All orders together
mak<^ up tlie universe ; and it is tlie
whole complex of diverse and multi-
tudinous existences which completely
expresses the divine idea and fulfils the
divine purpose of the creator. The
metaphysical finality or apex of the
creative act is in the incarnate Word,
but the riilation to the final cause ex-
ists in everything, and is fulfilled in
the universe as a totality, which em-
braces in one harmonious plan all
things that have been created, and
culminates in Jesus Christ, through
the hypostatic union of the divine and
human natures in his person.

In this universe there may
order of intelligent existences, to
at its lowest point the highest p
irrational existence, and at its 1
point the lowest in tlie grade
beatified spirits. That inferioi
of knowledge and felicity ma]
distinctly and separately which
conjointly with supernatural he\
in the kingdom of heaven. Tl
fection of the universe require
there should be a beatified, g]
order at its summit. It may e
maintained that this consumma
created nature in the highest p<
end is the only one which the
wisdom could propose in cr
Yet this does not exclude the
bility of an inferior order of
gence, upon which the grace ele
it to a supernatural state is n<
ferred.

We are prepared, Uierefore, t
ceed to the consideration of the
and conditions of that grace^ as i
gratuitous gift of Grod, conferrec
angels and upon the human
through his free and sovereign
ness. From the point ot* vi
which the previous reasoning ha
ducted us, the angels and mi
appear to us, not as mere spe
rational creatures conducted by
creator along the path of nitioi
velopment by natural law, but
elect heirs of an entirely grat
inheritance of glory — candidates
destiny entirely supematuraL
relation which they sustain to
in this supernatural scheme of
will therefore be our topic n<
order.

Song. '15Sf

SONG.

What magician pulls the string
That uncurtains pretty Spring?
And the swallow with his wing

Against the sky 1
Who brings the branch its green,
And the honcy-bec a queen?

"Is it ir

Said April, "ir
" Yes, 'tis I."

What aerial artist limns

Eock and cloud, with brush that dims

Titian's oils and Hogarth's whims

In shape and dye?
What Florirael embowers
Lawn and lake with arching flowers?

"Is it II"

Said bright July,

"Yes, 'tis L"

What good genii drop the grains
Of brown sugar in the canes ?
Who fills up the apple's veins

With sweetened dew ?
Who hangs the painted air
With the grape and golden pear?

Is it you,

October ? You ?

Yes, 'tis you.

Who careering sweeps the plain,
Scoffing at the violet's pain.
Echoing back and back again

His wild halloo?
Who makes the Yule-fire foam
Bound the happy hearth of home ?

Is it you,

December ? You ?

Aye, 'lis you.

T. W. K

100

(hwardie$ and CSraroytf.

From The Dublin Unlrenlty Mmnliw,

COWARDICE AND COURAGE.

Shakespeare, the universal teach-
er, who knew every phase of the
heart, and touched every chord of
feeling, has declared aphoristically,
speaking as Julius Cassar :

** Oowanis die many times before their deathi ;
The vall&ut only taste of death bat once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard.
It seems to roe moet strange that men should fear ;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when It will come."

Notwitlislanding this, fear is one
of the strongest impulses of our na-
ture — fear of discovery, shame, or
punishment when we have done
wrong : fear of pain, danger, or
death. Dr. Johnson said in conversa-
tion : " Fear is one of the passions of
humanity of which it is impossible to
divest it. You all remember that
the Emperor Cliarles V., when he
read upon tlie tomb of a Spanish
nobleman, * Here lies one who never
knew fear,' '.vittily observed, *Then
he never snuflTed a candle with his
fingers.'" In opposition to this we
may quote an anecdote told of Lord
Howe, when in command of the Chan-
nel Fleet. One night he was sud-
denly awakened by an officer, who,
in great trepidation, told him the
ship was on fire close to the powder-
room ; the admiral coolly replied :
"If it is so, sir, we shall very soon
know it." Some minutes aflerwards
the lieutenant returned, and told his
lordship he had no occasion to be
afraid, for the fire was extinguished.
^'Afraid!*' replied Lord Howe, has-
tily ; " what do you mean by that, sir ?
I never was afraid in my life."

No emotions of the human frame
are more opposite than cowardice
and courage, each taken in its simple
860861 yet both spring from the same

sources — physical temperan
early training. We do not i
own nervous system, which
grievously tampered with or ]
by silly, ill-conditioned nui
vants, and teachers, who
children with tales of bugbei
sters, and hobgoblins, un
scream if left in the dark f<
ment, and dare not sleep in
by themselves. Pillory or
at the cart's tail would be to
punishment for those mora
who strangle wholesome fe<
the first dawn of their existi
supply their place with bac
pressions, which, strongly i
in early youth, grow and st
to a period of life when reas
to subdue them, but fi*equcntl
do so. Viewed in this ligh
tutional timidity is a misfortui
than a crime, however conter
may be considered; while bd
mal insensibility to dangei
readily calls for admiration,
claim to rank as a virtue. V
not here of the moral couraj
may be cngrafled on a natur
ally pusillanimous, by pride, e
or a sense of duty and station.
IV., of France, and Frede
Great, of Prussia, are illusti
am pies of this victory of mi
matter. Both were instinctive
of danger, and both are ree
evincing perfect self-possess
displaying prodigies of valor
a hotly-contested field. Heni
quivered the first time he fou
self in action, although his h
firm. " Villanous nature, I w
thee ashamed of thyself I** he
6d| as he spurred his horse tl

Cawardiee and Courage.

161

fore which the bravest veter-
h1 ; and ever afterward the
ime was recognized as the
point of battle. Frederick
»m the field of Molwitz, and
arshals to win the day with-
but it was bis first and only
f wavering through a life of
[>aigns.

latures are so constant that
30 can shake them. An in-
:ur3 in the career of Crillon,
distinction, "The Brave,'
ny where all were valiant,
tationed with a small detach-
i lone house. Some young
I the dead of night, raised a
:he enemy were upon them,
ied by loud shouts and the
musketry. Crillon started
bed, seized his sword, and
wn-stairs in his shirt, calling
follow him and die at their
men. A burst of laughter be-
^8ted his steps, and he at
itrated tlie joke. He reas-
nd seizing one of the per-
roughly by the arm, exclaim-
ing man, it is well for you
r trick failed. Had you
le off my guard, you would
I the first I should have sac-
my lost lienor. Take warn-
ieal in no such folly for the

^ Xn. was gided from in-
li iron nerves. "What is
&?*' he asked, as the balls
past him when landing in
—a mere stripling, under a
e. *'Tbe sound of the shot
at your majesty," replied
Etenschild. « Good !" said the
henceforth that shall be
." And so he made it, with
rmission, until the last and
5t, whether fired by traitor or
I entered his brain, and fin-
wild career at Fredericshall,
f^ears later.

and Lannes were the admit-
ins of the Imperial army ;
Mice came to a stand-still be-
Attezy which vomited forth

VOL. IV. 11

fire and death. " Rascals !" muttered
Napoleon, bitterly; ''have I made
you too rich?" Stung by the taunt,
they rushed on, and the victory was
gained. No epidemic is so contagious
as a panic. When once caught, it
expands with the velocity of an ignit-
ed train. A celebi-ated case occurred
in Henry the Eighth's time, at the
Battle of the Spurs, in 1518, so called
because the defeated force fled with
such haste that it was impossible for
the best mounted cavaliers to over-
take them. Thus the killed and
wounded made but a poor figure.
Then came Falkirk, in 1746, of which
Horace Walpole said : '' The fighting
lay in a small compass, the greater
part of both armies running away."
Then the memorable '' Races of Cas-
tlebar," of which the less that is said
the better; then the sauve qui peut
of Waterloo; and though last, far
from least, the pell-mell rout of Bull's
Run, which inaugurated the late
American war. Livy records, and
Sir William Napier quotes the anec-
dote, that after a drawn battle a god,
calling out in the night, declared that
the Etruscans had lost one man more
than the Romans I whereupon a panic
fell on the former, and they abandoned
the field to their adversaries, who
gathered all the fruits of a real vio-
tory.

There are some who think they can
face danger and death until the mo-
ment of trial arrives, and then their
nerves give way. In the biogra-
phies of John Graham, Viscount of
Dundee, we find it related that, during
the civil wars of that period, a friend
of his, a loyal and devoted partisan
of the house of Stuart, like himself,
committed his favorite son to his
cliarge. "I give him to the king's
cause," said the father; <<take care
that he does not dishonor his name
and race. I depend on you to look
after him." In the first action, the
unlucky youth exhibited undoubted
symptoms of cowardice. Dundee
took him aside and said : " The servioe
in which we arc engaged is deaperatey

162

Oowwrdie$ and Oomruge.

and requires desperate resolation on
the part of all concerned in it. Yon
have mistaken jour trade. Go home,
before worse happens.^* The jouth
shed bitter tears, said it was a momen-
tary weakness, implored for another
trial, and promised to behave better
the next time. Dundee relented.
The next trial soon came, with the
same result. Dundee rode up to the
recreant, pistol in hand, and exclaim-
ing, " Your father*s son shall never die
bj the hands of the hangman,*' shot
him dead upon the spot.

Experienced military authorities
have delivered their opinion that of
one hundred rank and file, taken indis-
criminately — Alexanders at six-pence
per diem, as Voltaire sneeringly de-
signates them— one third are deter-
mined daredevils, who will face any
danger, and flinch from nothing ; the
next division are waverers, equally
disposed to stand or run, and likely to
be led either way by example ; while
tUe residue are rank cowards. Dr.
Johnson took a more unfavorable view.
At a dinner at General Paoli's, in
1778, when feare of an invasion were
circulated, Mr. John Spottiswoode,
the solicitor, observed that Mr. Fraser,
an engineer, who had recently visited
Dunkirk, said the French had the
same fears of us. "It is thus," re-
marked Dr. Johnson, "that mutual
cowardice keeps us in peace. Were
one half mankind brave, and one
half cowards, the brave would be al-
ways beating the cowards. Were all
brave, they would lead a ver}' uneasy
life ; all would be continually fighting ;
but i>einpr all cowards, we go on tolera-
bly well."

It is difficult to invest with interest
a quality so universally held in con-
tempt as cowardice; yet Sir Walter
Scott has succeeded in obtaining sym-
pathy for Conachar^ or Eachin Aflan.
the young Highland chieftain, in the
Fair Maid of Perth. He evidently
conceived the character con amare,
and has elaborated it with skill and
care.

Moataigne obtenres of fear that it

is a surprisal of the heart upon
prehensioD of approaching eril ;
It reaches the degree of tenor, a
evil seems impendent, the hair if
on end, and the whole body pi
horror and trembling. Aher
the passion continues, the spir
thrown into confusion, so that th<
not execute their offices ; the aflo
cors of reason fail, judgment is
ed, the powers of voluntary mot
come weak, and the heart is insu
to maintain the circulation of the
which, stopping and stagnating
ventricles, causes fi&inting and i
ing, and sometimes sudden deatl
quaint old essayist then illustn
examples. He tells of a jeste
had contrived to give his mas
petty prince of Italy, a hearty di
and a fright to boot, to cure him
ague. The treatment succeedec
the autocrat, by way of retaliatio
his audacious physician tried foi
son, and condemned to lose his
The criminal was brought fort
priest received his confession
the luckless bufibon knelt to p
for the blow. Instead of wieldi
axe, the executioner, as he had
instructed, threw a pitcher of wa
the bare neck of the criminoL
the jest was to have ended ; bi
shock was too great for poor G<
who was found dead on the blod
Montaigne also says, that fear
fests its utmost power and effi»ct
it throws men into a valiant d<
having before deprived them
sense both of duty and honor,
first great battle of the Romans a
Hannibal, under the Consul Se
nius, a body of twenty thoiisaiM
that had taken flight, seeing nc
escape for their cowardice,
themselves headlong upon the
mass of tbeir pursuing enemies,
with wonderful force and furj
charged, and cut a passage th
with a prodigious slaughter <
Carthaginians ; thus purchasing
nominious retreat at the same
which might have won for them
rioos victory.

Ckwardice and Gouragt.

163

Bnt if fear is a deBtracdye, it also
■ometimes acts in an opposite sense.
Dr. Thomas Bartoline tells ns in his
history of anatomy, that fear has been
known to core epilepsy, gout, and
agne. He relates that a woman of
condition, who was affected with the
tertian ague, was so terrified by the
explosion of a bomb, which was fired
cff during her fit, that she fainted away
ind was thought to be dead. ^ Hav-
mg then sent for me to see her," he
tdds, ** and finding her pulse still pret-
ty strong, I prescribed for her some
ifight oordiab, and she soon recovered
froiai her state of weakness without
. inj appearance of fever, which had
afterward no return."

Bartoline says again that a young
hdj who had a quartan ague for seve-
nl months successively, was invited
hf some of her acquaintance to take an
excoision on the water, with a view to
diBupate the melancholy ideas occa-
Bxxied by her illness ; but they had
icaroely got into the boat when it be-
pn to sink, and all were terribly
shocked with the dread of perishing,
ifter escaping this danger, the patient
found that the terror had cured her
ailment, and she had no return of the
igne.

A third instance recorded by Barto-
fine is even more extraordinary than
tlie two we have already named. A
Bum forty-two years of age, of a hot
and moist constitution, subject to a
calic, but the fits not violent, was
Mixed one evening, about sunset, with
an internal cold, though the weather
QD that day was unusually warm.
Different medicines were administered
to him, but without success. He died
wilhm eighteen or nineteen hours,
withoat the least agitation or any of
the convulsions that frequently ac-
eompany the parting agony, so that
he eeemed to subside into a placid
alrep. His friends requested Dr.
Bartoline to open his body, and it was
found that he had died of a mortifica-
tion of the punerens. He was a very
fri subject, and what was surprising in
to hnge and oorpaleot a body, his bones

were as small as those of a young girl,
and bis muscles extremely weak, thin,
and membraneous rather than fleshy.
While the doctor was making these ob-
servations on the dissected corpse, a
brother of the deceased, who had been
absent for sixteen years, and was of
the same size, constitution, and habit of
body, entered the room suddenly and
unexpectedly. He looked on the re-
mains of his relative, heard the detail
of the circumstances of his death, the
cause of which he saw confirmed with
his own eyes, and reasoned for some
time calmly and sensibly on the mourn-
ful event. All at once he became stu-
pefied, speechless, and fell into a faint-
ing fit, from' which neither balsams nor
stimulants, nor any of tlie remedies re-
sorted to in such cases, could recover
him. The opening of a vein was sug-
gested, but this advice was not follow-
ed. All present appeared as if para-
lyzed with horror. The patient seem-
ed to be without pulse or respiration,
his limbs began to stiffen, and he was
pronounced to be on the point of ex-
piring. A sudden idea struck Barto-
line, for which be says he could not ac-
count, but he said aloud, ^ Let us re-
compose the dead body and sew it up ;
in the meantime the other will be quite
dead, and I will dissect him also." The
words were scarcely uttered when the
gentleman supposed to be tit articuio
mortis started up from the sofa on
which he had been laid, roared out
with the lungs of a bull, snatched up
his cloak, took to his heels, as if nothing
had happened to him, and lived for
many years after in an excellent slate
of health.

Fear has been known to turn the
hair in a single night from black to
grey or white. This happened, amongst
others, to Ludovico Sforza. The same
is asserted of Queen Marie Antoinette,
although not so suddenly, and, as
some say, from grief, not fear. The
Emperor Louis, of Bavaria, anno 125G,
suspected his wife, Mary of Brabant,
without just cause, condemned her,
unheard, for adultery, and caused her
chief lady-in-waiting, who was also

164

Cawardiet ,and Comrag^.

innocent, to be cast headlong from a
tower, as a confederate in his dis-
honor. Soon after this horrible cmeltj
he was visited bj a fearful vision one
ni[fht, and rose in the morning with his
dark locks as white as snow.

A young Spaniard of noble family,
Don Diego Osorio, being in love with
a lady of the court, prevailed on her to
grant him an interview by night in the
royal gardens. The barking of a little
dog betrayed them. The gallant was
seized by the guard and conveyed to
prison. It was a capital crime to be
found in that place without special
permission, and therefore he was con-
demned to die. The reading of the
sentence so unmanned him that the
next morning he stood in presence of
liis jailer with a furrowed visage and
grey hair. The fact being reported
to King Ferdinand as a prodigy, he
was moved to compassion, and par-
doned the culprit, saying, he had been
sufficiently punished in exchanging
the bloom of youth for the hoary
aspect of age. The same happened
to the father of Martin Dclrio, who,
lying sick in bed, heard the physicians
say he would certainly die. He re-
covered, but the fright gave him a
grey head in a few hours, and this
Instance of the terror he had suffered
never afterward lefl him.

Robert Boyle, in his Philosophical
Examples, relates the following inci-
dent of the same class : " Being about
four or six years since," he says, " in
the county of Cork, there was an Irish
captain, a man of middle age and
stature, who came with some of his
followers to surrender himself to the
Lord Broghill, who then commanded
the English forces in those parts, upon
a public offer of pardon to the Irish
that would lay down their arms. He
was casually met with in a suspicious
place by a party of the English, and
intercepted, the Lord Broghill being
then absent. He was so apprehen-
sive of being put to death before the
return of the commander-in-chief,
that his anxiety of mind quickly al-
ter^ the color of hift hair in a pecu-

liar manner. It was not uni
changed, but here and there <
peculiar tufts and locks, whose
might be about an inch in dif
were suddenly turned white ak>i
rest of his hair, whereof the Iris
to wear good store, retained its i
reddish color."

A sudden shock operates <
memory as well as on the hai
Pliny's Natural History we n
one who, being struck violeutl
unexpectedly by a stone, forg
letters, and could never write \
another, he says, through a fal
the roof of a very high house, k
remembrance of his own mothc
nearest kinsfolks, friends, and ;
bors ; and a third, in a fit of sic
ceased to recognize his own ser
Messala Corvinus, the great c
being startled suddenly, foi^ot hi
name, and was unable to remea
for a considerable time. The
thing happened to Sidney Smitl
from fear, but from absence of ;
He called on a friend, who wa
at home, and he happened to ha
card to leave. ** What name, sir?
the servant. " That's exactly w
can't tell you," was the reply.

Augustus Caesar was not a v
man, in the popular acceptaty
the word. lie shrank in his
from the onset at Philippi, sk
in the hold of the admiral's \
during the sea-fight with Sextus
pey in the Straits of Messina
was a safe spectator on shore s
tium. Antony, and even his
friend and lieutenant, Agrippa, ta
him with his want of courage,
was so terrified at thunder and
ning that he always carried witl
the skin of a sea-calf as an ant
If he suspected the approach
tempest, ho ran to some undergi
vault until the symptoms passed
Yet Suetonius says he once, und^
cessity, showed a bold front to s
ger he could not avoid. He was
ing abroad with Diomedes, his ste
when a wild boar, which had h
loose, rushed directly toward

ChwardicB and Courage.

165

rardy in his terror, ran behind
eror and interposed him as a
etwixt the assailant and him-
ugustus stood his ground, be-
^ht was barred, and the boar
ail. But knowing that fear,
ce, had prompted the conduct
rvant, he had the magnanimity
e his resentment to a perpet-
Caligula, who affected to
the gods, was equally terrified
gustus at the least indication
er and lightning. He covered
, and if the explosions chanced
ad and near, leaped from his
id hid himself under it.
ry mentions several sovereigns
ed war, but had no taste for

participation in its perils,
the Fifth, and his son, Philip
nid,are amongst the number,
ling characteristic of the latter
jlty, a disposition generally as-
with cowardice. Diocletian,
became emperor, fought more
lieutenants than in person.
Qs said of him that he was
d spiritless in all situations of

ErcU in omnx tumtdtu meti-
t animi dejedus,^
nmander should be self-col-
a battle, calm under a shower
or the whistling of artillery ;
)rove his courage, he is not
K>n to charge windmills with
Jiic madness of Don Quixote,
f eight hundred enemies with
hand, as recorded of Aurelian
lard Coeur de Lion. Charles
en and Attila loved fighting
ing's sake ; for the certaminis
as Cassiodorus writes ; " the
Df the strife," as Lord Byron
8 the passage. Yet a brave
b not obliged to be a vulture
blood like the truculent king
[uns. He can maintain his
m for personal courage with-
ung alone into the midst of an
foes, as Alexander did from
s of Oxydrace ; or resisting a
many thousands with three

IL Dt Horttbot Peneootoram, c. \x.

hundred men, as Charles XU. did at
Bender ; or of placing his foot first on
the scaling ladder in emulation of the
exti-eme daring of the Constable Bour-
bon, under extreme circumstances, at
the storming of Eome. Charles the
First lacked marcU courage, but he
was no craven physically. His bra-
very in the field, and calm dignity on
the scaffold, went far in atonement of
his political weaknesses and short-
comings.

The mind naturally revolts from sud-
den or violent death. Tet it has its
recommendations. It is never painfuL
The important consideration is lest it
should be unprepared for. We mourn
the loss of a friend or relative who is
killed in battle more than we do that of
one who dies in the course of nature, or
of an incidental fever. We lament a
soldier's death because it seems un-
timely. A sufferer who languishes of
disease, ends his life with more pain
but with less a-ediL He leaves no
example to be quoted, no honor to be
cherished as an heirloom by his de-
scendants. We affect to be greatly
shocked at the misfortunes or death of
a friend or acquaintance, but there is
something pharisaical in this exuber-
ance of sympathy, only we are un-
willing to confess the truth openly.

Foote, who was a scoffer, and in all
respects an irreligious man, said, when
very ill, that he was not afraid to die.
David Hume, an esprit fort of a more
pretentious character, declared that it
gave him no more uneasiness to think
he should not be after this life, than
that he had not been before he began
to exist. An ingenious sophistry, like
his essay on miracles. We do not be-
lieve that any one ever really per-
suaded himself that he was not a re-
sponsible being, and not answerable
for his deeds done in the ficsh. Sir
Hunry Halford, in his essays, ex-
presses his surprise that of the great
number of patients he had attended, so
few appeal^ reluctant to die. " We
may suppose," he adds, ^that this
willingness to submit to the common
and irresiBtible doom, arises from an

106

ChwafAc0 ana cAwitij^

impadence of saffering, or from that
passive indifference which is some-
times the result of debility and extreme
bodilj pain.**

Themistodes was quite as nnwillmg
to die, although he assigned a better
reason for his loye of life. Finding
his mental and physical powers be-
ginning to decay, in sach a manner as
to indicate his approaching end, he
grieved that he must now depart,
when, as he said, he was only begin-
ning to grow wise. As an instance of
superstitious terror, Plutarch tells us
that Amestis, the wife of the great
Xerxes, buried twelve persons alive,
offering them as a sacrifice to Pluto
for the prolongation of her own days.
Mecfienas, the great patron of learn-
ing, and favorite of Augustus, had
such a horror of death, Uiat he had
off en in his mouth, ^all things are to
be endured so long as life is contin-
ued." The Emperor Domitian, from
innate timidity, caused the walls of the
galleries wherein he took daily recrea-
tion to be garnished with the stone
called phangites, the brightness of
which reflected all that was passing
behind him. Theophrastus, the phi-
losopher, who lived to be one hundred
and seven years of age, was so attached
to life that he complained of the parti-
ality of nature in granting longevity
to the crow and the stag beyond that
accorded to man. Plutarch, in his
life of Pericles, names a skilful engi-
neer called Artemon, who was withal
so timorous that he was frightened at
his own shadow, and seldom stirred
out of his house for fear some accident
should betide him. Two of bis ser-
vants always held a brazen target over
his head lest anything might fall upon
it; and if necessity compelled him to
go abroad, he never walked, but was
carried in a litter which hung within
an inch or two of the ground.

We read, in a more recent author,
of a certain Rhodius, who, being sen-
tenced to perpetual imprisonment in
a dungeon, by a tyrant, for indulging
in unseasonable liberty of speech, was
treated m all respects like a caged

beast, with great torture and igi
His food was scanty and loal
his hands were amputated, 1
gashed and disfigured with
In this mis^uble plight, som*
friends suggested to him to pal
to his surorings by voluntary
tion. « Noy" be repUed ; « wl
remains all things are to be ho|
He clung to mere existenc
death would have been a reUel
are we to reconcile or accc
these strange contradictions'
sum of all appears to be that
nature is a complex mystery,
the powers of man to fathom '
limited faculties attached to his
transitory condition.

Let us turn now to a more
tive quality, courage and mai
ing, as exhibited in life and
particularly in the ^ last scene
JFinis corancU opus — the end
the work. When Epaminonc
asked whether Chabrias, Ipl
or himself deserved the highei
in the esteem of their fellow-be
replied, " You must see us die
that question can be answered,
own exit at Mantinea, in the i
of a glorious victory, was sin
brilliant, and his parting sen
illustrated the purity of his life
situation finds an exact paralle
fall of Gustavus Adolphus, un
same circumstances, at Lutzen
name of the patriot who sea
blood his devotion to his eaosi
winning field, is encircled with
perishable halo of glory, the thfi
which would stir the pulse of
chorite. Claverhouse, in Oh
tality, describes the feeling wi
military enthusiasm. ^ It is t
says, ^ the expiring pang that i
thinking of in an event that mv
pen one day, and may befall us
moment — ^it is the memory wh
soldier leaves behind him, li
long train of light that folio
sunken sun ; that is all which if
caring for, which distinguisli
death of the brave or the \
When I think of death, as a ch

O^wanUee tmd Oouroffe.

1C7

almoBt hourly oocurrenoe in ihe course
before me, it is in the hope oi pressing
one day some well-fooght and hard-
von field of battle, and expiring with
the shout of victory in my ear ; thai
would be worth dying for, and more,
it would be worth having lived for."
And so fell the real Gaverhouse on
the field of Killiecrankie, and with him
vanished the passing gleam of sun-
shine in the fortunes of the master he
served so loyally and welL Had he
liTed to improve his victory, he would
have been in Edinburgh in two or three
dtya, and it is difficult to say what
tarn the pages of coming history might
then have taken. As soon as it was
known that he was killed, his army of
Highland clans dispersed, and never'
eollected again. They were held to-
gether by his single name, and had no
fidth in any other leader.

A heathen poet, Antiphanes, who
lired a century earlier than Socrates
or his pupil Plato, and five hundred
yean iMefore the Christian revelation,
bas a remarkable passage to this
eftct, of which the following verbal
tnuulstion is given by Addison in the
Spectator : *• Grieve not above mea-
Mre for deceased friends. They are
sot dead, but have only finished that
JMuney we are all necessitated to take.
^e ooFselves must go to that great
place of reception in which they are
iU of them assembled, and in this
general rendezvous of mankind live
together in another state of being."

Hen of the most opposite characters
^▼e jested on the point of death. Sir
IWas More, a Christian philo-
<opber, said to the executioner, <^ Grood
neod, let mo put my beard out of the
*ij,for that has committed no offence
9pmi the kmg."

The foUowmg instance, recorded by
the Abb6 Vertot, in Ids history of the
nroiations of Portugal, may claim
ttniparison, for intrepidity and great-
Beas of soul, with anything that we
nad of in Greek or Bomau lore.
IFhen Don Sebastian, King of Portu-

& invaded the territories of Muley
ich, Emperor of MbroccOi to de-

throne him and set his crown on the
head of his nephew, Moloch was wear-
ing away with a distemper which he
himself knew and felt to be incurable.
However, he prepared for the recep-
tion of the formidable foreign enemy.
He was so utterly exhausted by his
malady, that he scarcely expected to
outlive the day when the decisive
battle was fought at Alcazar. But
knowing the fatal consequences that
would happen to his children and
people in case he should die before he
put an end to that war, he gave direc-
tions to his principal officers tliat if he
died during the engagement they
should conceal hb death fi*om the army,
and should ride up to the litter in
which bis corpse was carried, under
pretence of receiving orders from him
as usuaL Before the action began he
was carried through all the ranks of
his host, with the curtains of the litter
drawn up, as they stood in battle
array, and encouraged them to fight
valiantly in defence of their religion
and country. Finding tlie action at
one period of the day turning against
him, and seeing that the decisive mo-
ment had arrived, he, thougli verging
on his last agonies, threw himself out
of his litter. The enthusiasm of his
spirit for the moment conquered the
feebleness of his body ; he was lifted
upon a horse, rallied his troops, and
led them to a renewed charge, which
ended in a complete victory on the
side of the Moors. The King of Portu-
gal was killed. At least, he disap-
peared mysteriously, and never was
seen again ; his body, like thac of
James the Fourth at Flodden, was nos
clearly identified, and more than one
pretender from time to time came for-
ward to personate him; his entire
army was dispersed, slain, or rendered
captive. Muley Moloch lived to wit-
ness the effi^ct of h's charge, when na-
ture gave way; his officers replaced
bun in his litter; he was unable to
speak, but laying his finger on his
lips to enjoin secrecy on all who stood
around him, died a few moments af-
terwards in that posture.

1C9

Oowvdice amd Owns^e.

Foritu'le and ral.T are. after alL
xar^r*: d«?riTwi from coa^dtutioxi ani
example ihan fnim anv inbereot pow-
er erf" til*; miod. Wben Sjlla beh<-W
bu aniiy oo the pcdnx of defeat bv
Archelaup. the soneral of ifiihridate?,
lie alighted from hi» bor?e« snaicbe'l a
standanl from the bearer, and niaL-
ing with it into ^fae midst of the ene-
mr, crie*l oat, - Here, comrades. I in-
tend to die ; but for you, when askei
where yon left your general, remem-
ber it was at Orchomenua." The sol-
diers, movi.'d by \\\u sj>eech and ex-
ample, n-tumed to their ranks, renew-
ed the fight, and converted an immi-
nent overtlirow into a decisive victory.
At Marathon, Cynejrirus, an Atheni-
an, having pursued the Persians to
their sliios, grasped a boat in which
some of them were putting off from
the shore, with his right hand, holding
it until hid hand was cut off; he then
seized it with the Ictl, which was also
immediately severed. After that, he
retained it with his teeth, nor did he
relinquish tiiat last hold until his fleet-
ing hn%'ith failed, and thereby disap-
pointed the resolute intention of his
mind.

The exploits of Mutius Scaevola,
who thrust his hand into the fire to
frighten Por.s(»nna, and of Horatius
Codes, who defended a bridge singly
against an anny, arc familiar to every
school-bny. The latter, in the glow-
ing verses of Macaulay, is a favorite
stibject of selection at school speech-
days, and for public readings or reci-
tations. According to the same au-
thority, IMutuR'h. the heroism of S2;v-
vola h:ul Ihmmi anticipated by Agesi-
liius, ih«» bn)!hcr of Themistocles.
WhiMi XtM'xes arrived with his count-
ies:* hi^^t Jit Capo Artemisium, the l>old
Atheuian, <lis»;uistHl as a Persian, came
into till* camp i»r the luirltariaus, and
slew Kww of the captains of the n\val
guar^l, snp|v»sinu he liail Im^ou the king
him^clt'. Wo was imincdiatoly brought
l»*»fort» Xcrxt***, who was then offering
sacrilli*!*?* upon the altar of the Sun.
.Vgt'silaiii I h PUS I his hand into the
llauto. and oiubmnl the torture with-

out sigh or groan. Xerxes
them to loose him. ^ All we
ans."^ mid AgesiUus. '* are of i
deiemunation. If thou wilt
lieve it. I will also suffer my
to be consumed by the fire
king, awed and impressed wit
for such undaunted constam
manded him to be carefiilly 1
well treated. Did one stor3
the other, or are both real
lous?

Valerius Maximus relates
lowing anecdote : *• After th<
custom of the ^Macedonians
noble youths waited on Alexii
Great when he sacrificed to i
One of these, holding a cense
hand, stood before the li
chanced that a live coal fell \
ann, and so burnt it that the
the charred flesh affected the
ers ; yet the sufferer suppree
pain, in silence, and held his
movable, lest by shaking th<
he should interrupt the saei
by his groaning disturb the ki
exander, that he might still
try his fortitude, purposely o
and protracted the sacrifice;
noble-hearted boy persisted in
olute intention."' To thift
stance of fortitude he adds
"Anaxarchus, a philosopher o
ra, was remarkable for free
speech, which no personal cc
tion restrained, lie was a fi
Alexander, and when the gr
queror was wounded, said
' Behold the blood of a man
of a god.* But Alexjinder wa
ble to be offended at such
truth. It was otherwise wit
creon, tyrant of Cyprus, to wb<
Anaxarchus betook bims^
death of Alexander. When 1
oiHMily reproached him with h
ties, Xieocreon seized and th
to pound him in a stone nun
iron hammers. * Pound the
Anaxarchus at thy pleasure,' «
ed he : * his seal thou cansl nol
The tyrant, in a paroxysm
ordered hit toogoe to be em :

Cowardice and Oourage.

169

. * Effeminate wretch,' cried
iaufited monitor, < neither shall
\ri of my bodv be at thy dis-
So saying, he bit off* his own
, and spat it in the face of his
itor.*'
on, in his History of Life and

mentions a certain tradition
an. who being under the execu-
i bands for iiigh treason, after
irt was plucked from his body,
et heard to murmur seveiul
of prayer. He also instances
r stninge example in the case
Burgundian who murdered the

of Orange. When the first
f his sentence, which only re-
to cutting off* his curls of hair,
irried out, he absolutely shed

yet, when scourged with rods
I, and his flesh torn with red-
Dcers, he uttered neither sigh
Mm. Before his sense of feel-
came extinct under reiterated
s, a part of the scaffold fell on
id of a spectator. The criminal
served to laugh at the accident.
\ recorded of Caius Marius, sev-
es Roman consul, and conquer-
he Cimbri and Teutones, that
t time before his death, in his
eth year, a swelling in the leg
ned the necessity of its being
To this he submitted without
ption of the face or any visible
' suffering. The surgeon told
B other leg was as badly affect-
1 peremptorily demanded the
emeily, if he wished his life to
tlonged. "No," said Marius,
ain is greater than the advan-

Something very similar oc-
at the death of Greneral Mo-
I the field of Dresden, in 1813.
Km ball, as he was in conversa-
th the Bmperor of Russia, shat-
118 right knee, passed through
dy of the horse, and left his
1^ suspended- by a few liga-

He sat up and coolly smoked
while undergoing the amputa-
the lefY. On being told that
t also lose the rights he shrug-

shoulden, and said to the sur-

geons, « On with your work, if it must
be so ; but if I haid known at the be-
ginning, I would have kept my legs
and spared your trouble." He sur^
vived only a few hours.

In 1571 Marc Antonio Bragandino,
a noble Venetian, who was governor
of Famagusta, in the island of Cyprus,
defended that city with indomitable
perseverance during a long siege,
which cost Mustapha, the general of
the Turkish army, many thousands
of his bravest soldiers. The promised
aid from Venice not arriving in time,
Bragandino was compelled to surren.
der on honorable conditions, which
Mustapha violated with consummate
treachery. He caused the principal
officers to be beheaded in sight of
their commander, who was reserved
for a more inhuman punishment.
Tlirce times the scimetar was drawn
across his throat, that he might en-
dure the pain of more than one death,
yet the illustrious victim quailed not
nor wavered in his intrepid demean-
or. His nose and ears were then cut
off^, and loaded with chains ho was
compelled to carry earth in a hod to
those who were repairing tlie fortifi-
cations. With this heavy burden he
was forced to bend and kiss the ground
every time he passed befoi'c Musta-
pha. Still his courage supported him,
and he kept dignified silence. Final-
ly he was Inshed to tlie yard-arm of
one of the Turkish giiUeys, and flayed
alive. He endured all with unshaken
firmness, and to tlie last reproached
the infidels with their perfidy and in-
humanity. His skin was carried in
parade along the coasts of Syria and
Egypt, and deposited in the arsenal
of Constantinople, whence it was ob-
tained by the children of the illus-
trious hero, and preserved as the most
glorious relic in their family.

We find it written in Baker's Chron-
icle that King William Rufus, beuig
reconciled to his brother Robert, assist-
ed him to recover Fort St Michael,
in Normandy, forcibly held by Prince
Henry, afterwards Henry the First.
During the siege, William one day

170

O&wardiee and Omrag^.

happening to be riding carelessly along
the shore, was set upon by three
knights, who assaulted him so fiercely
that they drew him from his saddle,
and the saddle from his horse. But
catching up his saddle, and drawing
his sword, he defended himself until res-
cue came. Being afterwards blamed
for his obstinacy in risking his life for
a trifling part of his equipment, ^' It
would have angered me to the very
heart," he replied, ^ that the knaves
should have bragged they had won the
saddle from me." The same authority
tells us that *^ Malcolm, king of the Scots,
a contemporary of William Rufus, was
a most valiant prince, as appears by
an act of his of an extraordinary
strain. Hearing of a conspiracy and
plot to murder him, by one whose name
is not recorded, he dissembled all know-
ledge of it, till being abroad one day
hunting in company with the concealed
traitor, he took him apart in a wood,
and being alone, ' Here now,' said ho,
< is fit time and place to do that man-
fully which you intended to do treach-
erously ; draw your weapon, and if you
now kill me, none being present, you
can incur no danger.' By this speech
of the king's the fellow was so daunted,
that presently he fell down at his feet
and humbly implored forgiveness ;
which being granted, he proved him-
self ever af\er a loyal and faithful
servant. This same Malcolm, son of
the Duncan who was murdered by
Macbeth, was himself killed at the
siege of Alnwick Castle, in 1093. A
young English knight rode into the
Scottish camp, armed only with a slight
spear, whereon hung the keys of the
castle, and approcbing near the king,
lowered his lance, as if presenting the
keys in token of surrender. Suddenly
he made a home thrust at the monarch's
eye, which ran into his brain, and he
fell dead on the instant, the bold
Englishman saving himself by the
swiftness of his horse. From this act
of desperate valor came the surname
of Piercy, or Percy, ever since borne
with so much honor by the noble
house of Northumberland.'*

A Dutch seaman being oo
to death, his punishment was
and he was ordered to be lei
island of St. Helena, at that
inhabited. The horrors of
without the hope of escape, d<
him to attempt one of the
actions ever recorded. Th
been interred that day in '
island an officer of the sfa
seaman took the body out of 1
and having made a kind of o
upper board, ventured to e
There was fortunately for hi
calm, and as he glided aloi
the next morning he came
ship lying immovable wit
leagues of the island. Whe;
mer companions saw so stran
upon the waters, they imagin<
a spectral delusion, but when
covered the reality, were no
startled at the resolution of
who durst hazard himself on
in three boards slightly nailed
He had little hope of being
by those who had so lately s
him to death. Accordingly it
to the question whether he si
saved or not- After some dc
much difference of opinion, m<
vailed. He was taken on Ix
came afterwards to Holland, '
lived in the town of Hoom,
latcd to many how miraculoi
had delivered him.

Raleigh's History of th
abounds in anecdotes of ui
action. Amongst many otl
following is not the least rem
** Henry, Earl of Alsatia, s
Iron, because of his strength,
great favor with Edward the '
reason of his valor, and of o
came a mark of envy for the i
One day, in the absence of
they counselled the queen tt
much as the earl was unduly ]
before all the English pc
knights, she would make trial
he was so highly descended as
out, by causing a lion to be
on him unawares, affirming
Henry were truly noble the U

Ch¥Hirdic§ and Oowrage.

171

nfiise to assail him. Thej obtained
leave to the effect that they desired.
The earl was accustomed to rise before
daj, and to walk in the lower court of
tke castle in which he resided, to enjoy
die fresh air of the morning. A lion
was broaght in during the nighty in his
cage, the door of which was after-
ward raised bj a mechanical contriv-
ance, so that he had liberty of escape.
Tbe earl came down in his night gown,
with girdle and sword, when he encoun-
tered the lion, bristling his hair and
loaring in the middle of the court.
Not in the least astonished or thrown
off his guard he called out with a stout
voice, * Stand, you dog !* Whereupon
the lion crouched at his feet, to the
peat amazement of the courtiers, who
peeped fixMU their hiding-places to see
the issue of the trick they had plan-
Mi The earl grasped the lion by the
Bane, shut him up in his cage, and
1^ his night-cap upon his back, and
so came forth, without even looking
behjod him. ^ Now,' said he to them
that skulked behind the casements,
*1et him amongst you that standeth
most upon his pedigree go and fetch
nj night-cap.* But they, one and all,
ashamed and terrified, withdrew them-
ielTes in silence."

Bot the most brilliant deeds and
toig of warriors on the battle-field,
stimulated by all the excitements of
pride, ambition, and man's applause,
in the estimate of true heroism fall
br below the glory of the patient, un-
pretending martyr, who dies for his
Uth at the stake, amidst the blasphc-
■ioj; yells of his persecutors.
Hoir impressive is the character
, fawn by Modcstus, deputy of the Em-
peror Valens, of St Basil the Great,
V he is justly called, whom he sought
to draw, with other eminent bishops,
iBto the heresy of Anns. He attempt-
^ it at first with caresses and all the
ngared phrases that might be expect-
^ from one who had words at com-
tMBd. IMsappointed in tliis course,
k tried threats of exile, torture, and
deatL Finding all equally fruitless,
kidmnedtoliis lord with this char-

acter Q^ Basil — ^ Firmior est quam ut
verbis, prsestantior quam ut minis,
fortior quam ut blanditiis vinci possit."
He is so resolute and determined, that
neither words, threats, nor allurements
have any power to alter him.

A sense of duty, in its high moral
definition, ranks far beyond the mere
courage of the soldier, the selfish
love of fame, the thirst of glory, or
the desire of personal pre-eminence.
The late Duke of Wellington was
duty personified. The following il-
lustrative anecdote has never, we be-
lieve, been in print, and came to the
present relater through a source which
vouches its authenticity. The duko
was also reticent, and not given to com-
municate his arrangements more open-
ly to his officers than was required for
their exact comprehension and the ful-
filment of their instructions. It is gene-
rally supposed that Lord Hill was sec-
ond in command at Waterloo, and
that he would have assumed the di-
rection of afisiirs had the great duke
been killed or wounded during the bat-
tle. This is a mistake. Lord Ux-
bridge, afterwards Marquis of Angle-
sea, was senior in rank, by the date of
his lieutenant-gcnerars commission, to
Lord Hill, and on him the command
would have devolved in the possible
and not improbable contingency al-
luded to. The diike communicated
with him most frankly and cordially on
all pi-ofessional points, but from family
incidents there was not that perfect un-
reserve and friendly intercourse in pri-
vate which otherwise might have been.
On the evening of the 17th of June,
Lord Uxbridge said to Sir Hussey
Vivian, his old friend and brother
officer of tlie 7th Hussars, " I am very
unpleasantly situated. There will be
a great battle to-morrow. The duke,
as we all know, exposes himself with-
out reserve, and will, in all probabili-
ty, do so more than ever on this occa-
sion. If an unlucky shot should strike
hun, and I find myself suddenly in
command, I have not the most distant
idea of what his intentions are. I
would give the world to know, as they

172

&tfil iMeij.

must be profoundly calculated, and far
beyond any I could hit upon for myself
in a sudden crisis. We are not per-
sonally intimate enough to allow me to
ask or hint the question. What sliall
I do ? " Consult Alava," replied Viv-
ian. "He is evidently more in the
duke's confidence than any one else,
and will perhaps undertake to speak to
him." Lord Uxbridge followed the
suggestion, rode over to head- quarters,
and finding General Alava, stated the
object of his visit. " I agree with you,"
said the Spaniard ; " the question is se-
rious; but honored as I am by the
duke's confidence, / dare not propose
it to him. I think, ho\;ever, that yoxk
can and ought to do so. If you like, I
will tell hiTi you are here." Lord
Uxbridge, not without reluctance, con-
sented, and being introduced to the
duke's apartments, with some hesita-
tion stated, as delicately as he could.

the matter wluch disturbed him. The
duke listened until Lord Uxbridge
ceased to speak ; his features indicated
no emotion ; and when he replied, it
was without impatience, surprise, or
any alteration of his usual manner.
After a short pause he said, ^ Who do
you expect will attack to-morrow, I
or Bonaparte ?*' ** Bonaparte, I sop-
pose,* answered Lord Uxbridge.
"Well, then," rejomed the doke,
" he has not told me his plans ; hov
then can I tell you mine, wbidi
must depend on hisr* Lord Uxbridge
said no more ; he had nothing more to
say. The duke seeing that lie looked
a little blank, laid his hand gently oo
his shoulder : " But one thing, Ux-
bridge," he observed, **is quite ce^
tain ; come what may, you and I will
both do our duty^ And so, with a
cordial pressure of the hand, tbey
parted.

SAINT LUCY.

The giving of my eyes

In loving sacrifice

Was my api>ointed way ;
No soft decline from the meridian day
Through dusky twilight slowly into dark,
But blackness, bloody, swift, and stark

From hands unkind.

And I was blind.

Tluis reads the story, writ on sacred scroll,

Of Lucy, virgin martyr : that sharp dole

Won heaven's etenial brightness for her soul ;—

Tlic blotting out of sunshine, the recoil

From utter bhinkness, the heart's gasp and spasm

Before the unstMMi void, the imagined chasm

Of untried darkness, was the martyr toil

AVhose moment's agony surpasses years —

The Ions, long years of patience and of tears

Allotted unto others. " All for all ;**

Not doling out with a n'luctant hand,

But in one holocaustal offering grand,

Will, senses, mind, responding to heaven's calL

SaifU Lucy. 178

^ Bought at whatever price, heaven is not dear,"

Sounds like an echoed chorus full of cheer

From crypts of mangled martyrs, and charred bones,

And blood-stained phials of the catacombs :

And that young Roman girl's adoring eyes,

One moment darkened, opened in surprise

Upon the face of God. The cruel, taunt

Of judges obdurate, the accuser's vaunt,

The mob's wild shout of triumph deep and hoarse,

Might still be heard around the bloody corse

When her sweet soul, in peace, at God's own word

Had tasted its exceeding great reward ;

To " see as she was seen," to know as known ;

The beatific vision all her own.

Upon the sacred canon's sacred page.

Invoked by vested priest from age to age,

Stand five fair names of vii-gins, martyrs all,

As if with some peculiar glory crowned

That thus their names should crystallize ; ^ their sound

Is gone through all the earth," and great and small

Upon those five wise virgins sweetly call

With reverent wish : Saint Lucy ! Agatha !

Agnes ! Cecilia ! Anastasia !

And chanted litany chose names enfold

Li reliquary more precious than mute gold.

With what a tender awe I heard that name —
A household name, familiar, dear, and kind.
Of gentlest euphony — such honor claim !
Thenceforth that name I speak with lifted mind,
More loved in friend, because revered in saint ;
And daily as to heaven I make complaint
Of mortal ills, and sickness, sorrows, woes,
This one petition doth all others close :
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, by thine eyes
Which thou didst give to Gtxl in sacrifice,
His mercy and his solace now implore
For darisened eyes and sightless, never more
To gaze on aught created : by that meed
Of choicest graces in that hour of need,
Sweetness of patience and a joyful mind,
And faithful, gentle hands to guide the blind !
But more than this. Saint Lucy ; thou didst gain,
By loss of thy young eyes with loving pain.
The vision given to angels i then obtain
The lifting up of blinded orbs to where
God sitteth in his beauty, the All-fair ;
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, aid our prayer I

174

The Godfreif Faamly; or, <?ii«feioiM ^ ikt Day.

THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF THE

CHAPTER V.

IB MERB MATERIAL FR06RB88 A REAL
BENEFIT, OR A PROGRESS VS THE
RIGHT DIRBCTION?

I HAVE already stated that Eugene
Grodfrey was well introduced on his
entrance at Camhridge. Scientific
professors found pleasure in bringing
forward the son of so eminent a patron
of literature and science. But they
were disappointed at finding little re-
sponse in Eugene's mind to the boast-
ful glory of scientific improvement
**Cui Bono?" was ever in his heart,
and sometimes on his lips, when any
new inventions were proposed to him.

" Supposing we should be able to
light our streets and our houses with
this wonderful combination of gases,"
he would say, ^ will the light within bo
the greater? Supposing we travel
without horses at the speed of thirty
miles an hour, can we travel nearer to
truth? Improvement! Is it an im-
provement to multiply bodily wants, or
(beyond supplying means of actual ex-
btence) is it rational to spend so much
time in rendering the body comfort-
able ? Is multiplying luxury a good ?*'

**It employs hands," would be the
reply, ^^ and thus diffuses wealth.''

^ If that is the only object, riches
could be easily scattered without
compelling those who own them to
become effeminate triflers."

"But simply to give away wealth
without exacting an equivalent, would
encourage idleness," argued the pro-
fessor.

"And so to benefit our neighbor's
morals we yield our own," said Eu-
gene. " Well, that is new philanthropy,
and I am less inclined to assent to it

than ever I was. To keep
untrammelled, we must, meth
duce the number of our physio
instead of increasing them,
there are other modes of h
mankind than those which e
The education of the hero ii
hardy, temperate almost to so
Fancy Sesostris or Cyrus k
ease in a spring-patented <
propped up luxuriously witl
cushions ! or think of a hero
out in gewgaws I Our minds
heroic element altogether in
ture."

" A good loss," replied the pr
^^ meth inks these warriors mak<
show, but what good do thci
They destroy the arts of pe
live on the excitement of vai
That excitement over, they
weak as other mortals. I
playing the distaff at Queen Oc
court is a fitting type of a f
hero's rest*'

" Not of all," replied Eugen«
querors have been lawgivers, c
ones too. The passion of gl(
not be a good in itself, but it
than sensuality. You would i
pare Cyrus with Heliogabalus

" Not for himself, perhaps, n<
own private dignity ; but for l
he did m the world at large, 1 1
preference questionable. Eve
ing that the cruelty of Helii
destroyed whole multitudes, it
the devastating effect on whole
which war ever produces; •
lays waste large fields, destr
duce, and brings famine and |
its wake."

"I am not arguing in favo
ibr its own sake, I am only sa;

Tke Godfrey FamUy; or, QuetUant of the Day.

175

eoniitant attentioa to mere bodilj com-
fort must cause the race to degenerate.
He who would rise individually in the
scale of existence must repress bodily
tppetik's, not encourage them ; and
thif. if true of the individual, must be
true of society also : consequeutly the
introduetion of luxury on a system,
most eventually prove itself to be an
evil

** Pshaw r* said the professor,
"these theories are well enough in
the closet, but in action they are good
fcr nothing. Why, you destroy in-
eeotive to mental activity, when you
debar man from applying it to useful
purposes."

** Useful, meaning increase of lux-
myP' asked Eujfene.

**WelU" somewhat petulantly re-
jobed the professor, '^ is not the dif-
fnioii of luxury a good ? The rich
ma? please themselves, but the poor
need more comfort than they enjoy ;
imoDg them diffusion of luxury must
beagood.''

^Does that diffusion take place
nion^ the poor, as a matter of fact —
It least among the masses ? Is not the
€Ootrary rather the case ? Are they
lot rather tlie ones to Buffer from tiic
int fruits of improvement. Look at
the ]ianchester riots for the good you
do;— awhile ago there was in that
tovn a contented population, sufficient-
ly provided with food, clothing, shelter,
ire. and other real necessaries ; sud-
denly one of your clever men invents
I machine which makes the rich peo-
ple's dresses at half the cost, and
tbrows one- third of the hands out of
capby. What good have you done ?
Ibere is in that community as much
fcod as before, as much clothing, as
■tth of every necessary of life ! Yet
tvo or three thousand families are sud-
denly deprived of the means of subsist-
ttee, and driven by despair to break
Ibe peace and disturb the public se-
cnity, while you are boasting of tlic
good of physical science. Methinks
Boral science wants studying too.**

''Oh, these things wiU right them-
ntfiSy will find tliMr own level ; other

employment will soon absorb the now
displaced hands, and all will be peace
again."

*^ I doubt it : the selfish principle
engenders the selfish practice. Teach
the laboring class by example to cater
only for their private gratification, whe-
ther that gratification be in vanity, self-
aggrandizement, or luxury ; teach them
to place all their happiness in physical
good, and then show yourself reckless
of their requirements by an indiscreet
introduction of machinery, and an
£nglish edition of the Keign of Tenor
may ensue."

^* But what can be done ? You would
not stop these new inventions, nor set
a limit to improvement ?"

" I would seek a higher principle of
action altogether ; and before setting up
new insentient machinery, would pro-
vide that the highest sentient machine-
ry, A/on, should receive due consider-
ation. It is a manifest injustice, when
the interests of the producers of wealth
are rashly sacrificed to increase the
luxury of the consumers."

'^And what is this new principle,
most compassionate sir?'* asked the
professor.

" I do not know, it is precisely that
which troubles me. Men are not the
mere money-machines you would turn
them to— of tliat I am well assured ;
but what they are and what their des-
tiny is, I have yet to learn.'

The professor laughed, rose and
took his leave.

Eugene remained plunged in a pro-
found reverie, from which he was
aroused by the visit of a stranger,
who announced himself as the M.
Bertolot introduced to our readers in
a previous chapter.

He said that although personally a
stranger, yet hearing of Eugene's resi-
dence at Cambridge, he had taken the
liberty of calling to inquire after the
welfare of his former friends.

Eugene welcomed him, and assured
him that the countess was in good
health and spirits.

^And her amiable daughter ?* in«
quired the old man.

176

The Godfrey Family ; or, QuettioHS of the Day.

" Is also wfll, I hope and believe,"
said Eup:eue ; '* but she leads so se-
cluded a life, even in o\jr large faraily,
that it is difRcuIt for those about her
to spcnk with any degree of certainty
ooncenring her."

" Indeed ! She is probably scarcely
recovered from the shock of her
fathei-'fl terrible death."

^ Fei-ha))S not ; but I do not think
thai is the sole cause of her seclusion :
bhe is essentially contemplative, and
the things of this world interest her
but little. What her ideas are, I do
not know, for she. seldom speaks of
them, but 1 think they would be worth
the knowing."

** Prol)ably so," replied M. Bertolot
^ She is a pure soul, beautiful and
good ; of whom we may ahnost affirm
that she scarcely knows what sin is."'

Eugene looked at the s|)caker in
surprise. " Wiiat sin is 1 What is sin P'
thought he. ** Is it aught beside the
consequence of error? and how can
we ese^ipe error if we cannot light on
truth ?" His puzzled look was per-
haps his lK.*i?t rrply.

*<You do not credit me," said M.
Bertolot ; " you tliink, and justly, that
all men are siiuiei's ; yes, indeed, all,
all are so, I spoke but by comparison :
it is rare to find so pure, so simple a
soul as is that of Mademosielle de
Meglior ; though not sinless, as none
can be, s^he is a consistent aspirant alter
heavenly lore, ever ke(»ping her heart
fixed uu tlu» only true source of light
and life : at h*ast she was so when I
knew her."'

*• She is tranquil and contempla-
tive,*' Siiid Eugene, "and when she
does speak, o1\en startles us with the
originality of her sentiments; but
when you spoke of Iht as not know-
ing sin, it was tlie expression that ius-
tonished me. Peoph' in polite lite do
not otten speak of themselves, or of
their friends, as sinners."

'• No 1" said M. Hfrtolot ; ^ excuse
me then, thtj expression came as nat-
urally U) my lips as to my thoughts.
1 intrnde<l no oftenct?."

"Nor did you give any: on the

contrary, I should be j^lad to know
from you the principle of Euphrasie's
mode of action, ii\ without violating
confidence, you can teil mc what it is.
She is actuated by motives not com-
prehended by those with whom she
lives."

" I can give you no other explana-
tion than that I sup)>ose her actuated
by the , purest principles of religicio.
As a child she gave promise of this :
all her thoughts and ideas tended up-
ward. Does she continue so ?**

" I never heard her s])eak of relif
gion," replied Eugene ; *' she som^
times speaks very sublimely, tbongh
very laconically, of truth being the one
thing to be cared for."

'• Ah !" said M. Bertolot, « is it thus
she veils herself? But with her trath,
and the worship of the author of tnith,
must go together. I know Eupbnsie
from childiiood. 1 know how she
struggled with her naturally vehement
spirit, until, even as a eluld, she oIh
tained the mastery. I remember, too^
the exphinations she sought for most
earnestly, of why our evil tendendes
remain to molest us when we become
members of Christ. All that the
child learne<l once she pondered OTer,
and oftentimes surprised her teachen
with her comments."

" I doubt it not : her remarks are
ever original I have of\en felt qaite
anxious to know the basis of her
actions."

"Nay, have you not said already,
that it was the love of truth ? Her
every thought tends that way, and ehe
early discovered how liable the practi-
cal recognition of metaphysical truth
is to be impeded by human paasioii.
Hence, from childhood upwards, she
has been accustomed to watch OTer
herself, and to check the indulgeoee
of any emotion that would fonn a
< blind' between herself, and the ob-
ject of her adoration. She is young
yet, but 1 venture to «ay she will [
by the age of passion unscathed.*

" Do you mean that she will
love?" asked Eugene.

" Nay, that 1 cannoc exactlj afflnit"

The Godfrey FamUy; or, Quesiione of the Day.

177

^. Bertolot; "^bat I think she
sr be governed bj any passion
OTe, pride, ikme, or ambition,
she has laid the true founda-
btaining the mastery over her
; and though she is naturally
ate. I am not sure that she
i happy now, if bound by hu-
. She has accustomed herself
in abstracted life ; she would
be at home in domestic

, I hope such is not the case I"
d Eugene, more warmly than
ded, for his latent feelings to-
luphrasie ever and anon be-
lemsel ves ; and while he scarce-
ised it to himself, interest in
\ of thought colored the course
vn ideas.

.'rtolot dexterously turned the
lion by reverting to a former
" It were well for mankind,"
" did they consider how much
ind prejudice warp the mind,
the consideration of abstract
Few, very few, keep their own.
. open for the reception of
I foreign ideas as would coun-
their previous conceptions,
till, give their neighbors credit
power to look at facts im-
. This is an attestation that
reigns rather than justice.
I the old system of Pytha-
' subjecting youth to moral
as a necessary preliminary
^ing the intellectual faculties
nonious play, were not a bad
t for this unruly age."
ould scarcely go down now,"
ogene.

ed no!*' said M. Bertolot.
aster says it would seem but
lous phrase in this all-dis-
^ All faculties, whether of
* body or soul, seem now
led. Positiveness usuips the
n^ason, and the mere child is
to question, instead of being
d at once to obey. If the
les on with this principle in
renty years longer, we shall
le men and women in plenty,

VOL IT. 12

bat no children left, and then woe to
the generation that succeeds: a gen-
eration untrained and undisciplined by
wholesome restraint, with intellects
prematurely developed without the
adjunct of self-government, which only
moral training can impart. What a
world it will make! Methinks its
inevitable tendency is to undue animal
preponderance. It is frightful to
think of r

^ I was just making the same re-
mark to Professor K ," said Eu-
gene ; *' but though I see the evil, I
cannot discern the remedy."

" It is indeed difficult to compass the
remedy," said M. Bertolot, the depar-
ture has been so wide. Meo have
ceased to distinguish between the re-
sult of mere human intelligence and
that of a loftier lore, and they now use
the intellect as the slave of the only
good recognizable in their system, t . e.
of boddy ease or pleasure. Practically
men ignore the soul and its high desti-
ny. Hence the disorder of the times.
Animalism is essentiaUy selfish, and
animalism is the tendency of modem
times — ^refined, veiled, adorned, with
much of intellectual allurement I ad-
mit, but nevertheless animalism thor-
ough and entire. '

^ I have thought of this before,** said
Eugene, "but my ideas are as yet
vague and undefined. I want data to
go upon some firm ground on which to
plant my feeU The guesses of philo-
sophers content me not."

" Nor should they, my young friend,
since, as you say, they are but guesses,
without a sure foundation. But have
you heard of nothing beyond philoso-
phy ? Has it never occurred to you
that the creative intelligence has re-
vealed himself to the creature of his
formation, and that through that revela-
tion we are informed of that which it
interests us toknow— of our own soul, of
the object of our creation, and of the
final destiny of man ?"

" I have heard of religion certainly,"
said Eugene, " but I cannot say I ever
studied it or practised it.*'

"No? Then no wonder you are

176

TIU Godfrey Famify; ar^ QMHimii q^llf Day.

dissatisfied. Tour mind is evidently
seeking for truth. Nothing but the
great truth can satisfy it. Study dis-
passionately the evidences of the truth
of the great Mosaic history. Contem-
plate the grand position of our first fa-
ther, Adam, receiving instruction from
Grod himself concerning the mighty
mjTsteries of creation, not only of mat-
ter and of material forms, but of bright
intelligences created to glorify and
adorn the court of heaven, and who
fell from their sublime position. Study
man first, fresh in perfection from the
hand of God, living as the friend of
Gody communing with his Maker in the
gaHen of Eden. Appointed by him
to rule o'er all inferior nature, the en-
titled Lord of the Creation, the master
of animal existences, and superior in
his own person to much of material in-
fluence. Tliink what it must have
been to walk with Grod, and have di-
vine knowledge infused into his soul, as
also all such material science as would
befit the founder of a mighty race to
transmit to his offspring, over whom he
was to reign as prince, father, priest,
and twicher ; and then consider wliat
it must have been to find suddenly that
source of knowledge dried up, the door
of communication closed, power weak-
ened, intuitions dimmed, and labor im-
posed OS the price alike of happiness,
knowledge, and of that supernatu-
ral communication which had been
man's best and highest privilege : the
solution of these problems will give you
the key to nuiny difficulties which per-
plex you."

" There are modem theories which
agree not with these prembes," said
Eugene. " These trace man from the
savage upward."

" Yes, ' said M. Bertolot, « the mii-
turn et turpe pecus* of Horace has
found, if not admirers, yet professed
believers in this age. A theory con-
trary to analogy, to evidence alike of
hisiory and tradition, has been as-
sumed, and wondrously lias found as-
serters too. All mere animals are ob-

served to be bom complete—
stincts, their organizatioQ senr
individual; and though accid
train an individual to feats be
fellows, yet there is no appet
new organs being formed to
mitted to its race. Now, the»
progressionists, who go bad
time

* ^Vhen wUd In woodi tiie noblt mn

deprive man of his soul, assim
to the brates to make him perf
brute nature never did perfon
ly, create faculty. Men liave
laugh at the doctrine of the
gration of souls, but mcthinks
trine of the progression to bod
ty from monkeys without tails
barians to civilized man witht
to the full as absurd ; to sa;
of that comprehensive powei
templation which enabled ^
demonstrate the order of
verse, it would be very diffic
derstand how abstract ideas
latent in the soul of a monke
development. Besides, byt:
of progression, during the timt
we have record, say six
years, men should be steadil
improve — ^lx)th as to arts, sciei
government, legal goveram
government, and bodily dove
but we do not find it so. Th
Babylon, of Thebes, and of o
cities built soon after the flo
architectural skill among the
such as is hardly aimed at m
listhcnes found astronomic
reaching as fiir back as witl
years of the deluge, in the t
Belus, when he accompaniet
der the Great on his expedit
East. And many arts have
altogether that were well kno
ancients. The half-barbar
erecting his hut amid tlie fall
and statuary of ancient Tli
Mameluke riding recklessly
agely amid the pyramids, thi
main to puzzle the assertor o
sion even with the mere m
difflcalties of the machinery

The Godfrejf Family; or, Que$tion$ of the Day.

179

nising sncb imxnense etoncs to such
a height and in such a plain, so distant
from any known quarries. These are
hat poor indications of tho race ad-
vancing, though individual nations,
worked on hj a regenerative influence,
may appear to make, nay do make,
great improvements in all respects."

*^ Do you, then, think that man's ten-
dcQcy is to degenerate?^ asked Eugene.
" Not necessarily, by any means," re-
plied M. Bertolot ; ^ but in proportion
as he departs from the centre of unity,
from the truths once imprinted on the
Mul of Adam, thence to be transmitted
for hnman guidance, it will, I think, be
found BO."

*« But," said Eugene, " is Adam's reli-
pm yours? Surely he was not a
Quistian."

^ If not in name and with the same
outward rites, yet in reality he must
liiTe been," replied the mentor.
"There is but one truth, and the difler-
eDce between his creed and ours was
tkt he looked for a Redeemer to come*
We believe in him as having come."

^ But was Adam's religion that of
the Jews, then T* asked Eugene.

''In creed and in spirit, yes. In
ftna and observance it differed, be-
ouue the Jews had typical forms
ipecially given to them, alike to com-
Bemorate their deliverance from
Egjpt, and to typity their delivery
throagh Christ from sin. They were
Iriog amid idolatrous nations, and the
lifegnard of a special ceremonial was
Medfnl to them."

" And save in the fulfilment of their
expectation, is the Jewish creed
Qiristian?" asked Eugene.

''Ab far as it goes it is ; the Chris-
tiu revelation is a fuller development
of the old tradition, a clearer expos i-
tioo of God ; it destroys nothing of
&e past revelation, it fulfils and ex-
pmk The Jews were the preservers
of the great tradition, transmitted
ttrongfa the patriarchs to Noah, and
bj him, tlirough his sons, to the race
it huge. The tradition became cor-
npted by the minority ; yet it is found
ii Mme fonn^or oUier mixed up in all

mythologies; and what deserves re-
mark is, that the further back we trace
mythology the purer it becomes. The
early records of all nations tell us of
purity, discipline, and sacrifice to se»
cure purity of morals, and teach of jus-
tice afker death, of good and evil spiritR,
and of the interference of the deity to
check man in his career of evil. Men
seem at first not so much to have
denied the true Grod, as to have as-
sociated other gods with him, and to
have changed their worship from seek-
ing such spiritual union as would
render them * sons of Grod,' to adora-
tion of the creator and upholder of
physical power, physical grandeur, and
physical beauty. Atheism, and the
lowering of man's nature to that of
a - mere mortal animal, is an inven-
tion of modern times, and has for
the most part only been held by men
satiated, as it were, by a spurious
civilization."

" I am but little versed in the Bible,"
8aid*Eugene, " but I have heard learn-
ed men assert that all the education,
so to speak, of the Jewish nation was
of a worldly character; and that
though there are passages of Scripture
containing allusions to the immortality
of the soul, yet that doctrine was no-
where definitely asserted, but that, on
the contrary, all the revfards and pun-
ishments promised, or threatened, wero
of a temporal nature."

^ And yet no one disputes that tho
Jews did, and do believe the soul to bo
immortal, as also that they believed,
and still believe, in the traditions con-
cerning the fallen angels, the fall of
man, the promised redemption, and
many others. These doctrines, pro-
mulgated to all the world, were kept
intact by Abraham and his descend-
ants ; and it is a very general belief
that they were renewed in their purity
in the soul of Moses, during that long
communion vouchsafed him on Mount
Sinni. The material law for exterior
conduct he wrote down ; but the
spiritual themes which formed the
staple of the expositions given by the
rulers and doctora of the synagoguoi

ISO

I^ Goifrty Family ; or, Quuiians of the Day.

aod which were only figured hy the
material types, were pro^bly deemed
by the holy lawgiver too sacred to
dilate upon in writing. If, after that
forty days' sublimation, his spirit was
so triumphant that he was fain to veil
the glory of his face, we must needs
suppose that not the mere written law,
or setting forth the ritual of their wor-
ship, occupied his ^yhole attention, but
that his spirit expanded beneath the
graces vouchsafed to him, and that he
was, in a sense, made partaker of those
spiritual truths which lie concealed
from more materialized minds/'

**The«e facts deserve attention, at
any rate," said Eugene; "can you
refer me to authorities within my
reach ?*'

"Indeed, I know not what your
resources are, and my own books I
have lost My memory, too, serves
me but treacherously on controversial
subjects ; but I think if you will turn
to Grotius de Verit. Christ, you will
find him quoting Philo Judaeus in
proof of the similarity of the Chris-
tian doctrine with the Jewish."

Eugene handed the book to his
friend, who read the passage, of which
the following is the translation :

" We have still to answer two ac-
cusations with which the doctrines
and worship of Christians are attacked
by the Jews. The first is, that they
say we worship many gods. But this
is nothing more than a declaration
thrown in hatred at a foreign faith.
For what more is asserted by the
Christians, than by Philo Judaeus, who
frequently represents three in God,
and who calls the reason, or word of
God, the name of Grod, the framer of
the world, neither uncreate, as is the
Father of all, nor so bom as are men
(whom both Philo and Moses, the son
of Nehemanni, calls the angel, the
deputy for ruling this world) ; or what
more than the cabalists assert, who
distinguished in God three lights, and
indeed by somewhat the same names
as the Christians do, namely, of the
Father, of the Son or Wordi and of
the Holy Spiriit And I may abo

assume that which is confe
the Jews, that that spirit wl
the prophets, Ls not create
is distinct from him who
etc.

" But," said the old man,
and closing the book, ** I
ting myself; I came not l
liver a lecture on theology,
quire after my former fiic
cuse an old man*s ^armlity

"Not yet," said Engei
conversation interests me
not go yet"

" Yes, for to-night I lea^
you permit me, however, I
on another day. Meantim
suggest to you one import
tion. When Almighty
created all things, and |
them good ; when he had f<
from the slime of the eartl
dered him the most perfect •
man was not yet quite com
the completion, what was it
gel had command to fulfil
drous office, nor was it hj
that mysterious power was
being : but God breathed, a
came a living soul. The Si
is, then, the in-breathing of 1
— immortal in its essence, (
its affini ties. Quench not it
impulses, when it bids yo
ward in love and confid
pray — ever pray — ferve
denlly, perseveringly." Tli
with a half-smile, which i
Eugene who had been
monitor. He then abrup
the room.

CHAPTER VI.
MODERN FAGANI8]

The Duke of Durimoi
fair bride prolonged their
the lakes and mountains o
o' cakes" until autumn hac
show the fallen leaf. Hesi
a little disappointed at thi
impatieotly expecting a 8

The Godfrey Family ; cry Questions of ike Day.

181

meet her sister at the dacal mansioD,
and she thought the period unneces-
sarily delayed.

At length the wished-for invitation
came, and father, mother, sisters,
hrother, aunt, and Euphrasie were call-
ed upon to welcome the young duch-
ess to one of the costliest and most
elaborately finished palaces in Eng-
land. Hester shouted in glee as the
carriage entered the mile-long avenue
of stately trees that formed the ap-
proach to the ducal dwelling. The
bevy of liveried servants that await-
ed their approach at the hall-door, the
qnict, respectful bearing of the gen-
tkmen servants out of livery who
wuted within to escort them to the
Boite of rooms prepared for their re-
ception — all this was charming I de-
lightful ! only a look from her parents
preveDted the merry girl from danc-
ing round the house in ecstasy. The
entnuice-hall itself was sufficient to
send her into raptures. The beautiful
marble of the floor, the large fires
bniniog on each side, the triple row
of balconies, raised one above another,
OQ the three sides within the hall, be-
Utkening the communication of the up-
per stories with the rest of the house
bf some unseen means, and display-
ing the full height of the edifice,
crowned as it was by a beautifully
ewred cupola, into which sufficient
ckjlight was artificially admitted to
display to advantage the figures of
the rosy Aurora accompanied by her
OTmpltt, scattering flowers on her way
M she opened the gates of morning,
vhith subject was skilfully portrayed
OQ the ceiling. They passed through
this, the outer halU to another, which
contatued the magnificent staircase
leaduig to the apartments opening on
the balconies described. To Hester's
J07 the entrance to their suite of
nKMns opened on the first of these,
>nd she could look up to the painted
ttflmg and down to the marble floor,
ttd gaxe, unrebuked, on the colossal
%Bres of bronze which appeared to
qibold the balconies.
How happy Adelaide must be, mis-

tress of 60 gorgeous a palace ! And
Adelaide was there at the door of the
apartments to greet her mother and
her mother^s friends. What was there
in her manner to damp at once the
ardor of Hester's enthusiasm ? Grace,
kindness, and dignity were there ! and
yet Hester was not satisfied ; a chill
came o'er her unawares as she return-
ed her sister's kiss. She mastered
herself, however, sufficiently to ex-
press her admiration of the splendid
hall.

<'0h, that is nothing,' said the
young duchess, with a faint smile.
** His grace will introduce you to his
hall of sculpture and to the picture
gallery by and by, and then you will
be really pleased. I believe royalty
itself cannot boost such master-pieces
as Durimond Castle."

." So I have heard," said Mrs. Grod-
ireyy "but where is the duke, my
dear?"

*'He was unexpectedly occupied
when you arrived, mamma, but doubt-
less he will be here to welcome you
immediately."

There was a constraint and melan-
choly about Adelaide's manner that
struck the whole party, and theu-
pleasure was more than a little damp-
ed as they entered the magnificent
apartments prepared for them.

" Here," said the hostess, " you can
be as private as in your own house
when you wish it ; and when you de-
sire society you will generally find
some one either in the library, or in
the conservator/ or drawing-room."

"Have you many guests 1" asked
the Countess de Meglior.

" Your friend, the Comte de Ville-
neuve, came with us from town ; he
is not here to-day, though I think the
duke expects him to-morrow. He is
absent on some business ; there is a
strange gentleman closeted with the
duke just now, for whom apartments
are ordered ; he is a foreigner, I think ;
the duke seems to have business with
him. He will be our only visitor to-
day."

Just then the bell rang to warn the

182

TAe Ga^rey Famify; or, QyeHiami afA9 Dag.

gaests it was the dressing hour. Val-
ets and ladies* maids were in attend-
ance, and though only to join a fami-
ly party, state-dresses were in requi-
sition.

Adelaide retired to make her prepa-
rations, and the visitors, amid the lux-
urious surroundings, felt oppressed with
a sadness for which they could scarcely
account, and which they cared not to
express, even to one another.

The duke met them in the drawing-
room before dinner, and his gay man-
ner in some d^ree dispelled the gloom
that had crept over the party. He in-
quired kindly afler Eugene.

^ Eugene, from some cause or other,**
said Mrs, Godfrey, "keeps away
from home altogether. He spent his
long vacation at the lakes, and has
again returned to Cambridge. He
has taken a studious (it, I suppose, and
must be allowed to gratify if

" And does he not, then, intend to
honor us with his company ?" inquired
the duke.

" Oh, he will run down for a day or
two ere long, I dare say. He must see
Adelaide, of course ; but when, he does
not exactly say."

Adelaide did not appear displeased
to hear this. She turned to her hus-
band and asked what he had done with
his visitor.

^' He would not stay, he had an ap-
pointment to keep, so we must make
up for all deficiencies ourselves."

The dinner passed away stiffly
enough, and as the season was too late
for a walk atlerward, the gentlemen,
following the then national custom,
passed a considerable time over the
bottle, discussing the politics of the day.
It was late in the evening ere they
joined the ladies. They found them
in a large conservatory, which was il-
luminated in honor of Mr. and Mrs.
Godfrey's arrival ; and in this flowery
retreat sundry self-acting musical in-
struments were hidden, which, from time
to time, sent forth, as it were unbidden,
melodious sounds and tuneful harmo-
nies, whicli, vibrating amid the flower-
ing shrubs that fdmed an artificial

spring within the glass enclosure, con*
trasted pleasingly with the ^ fall of the
leaf" that nude all nature desdate
without

^Art conquers nature here,*' txA
Mr. Godfrey, as be entered Uie en-
chanted scene. ^ We might fancy oiu^
selves in a fairy palace now. What
says my Hester to this ?^

"Oh! this is beautiful, indeed!
Music, moonlight, love, and flowcvL
* A glorious combination,^ '' said Hester,
pointing to the moon, which sbooe
brightly through the windows ; but her
voice had lost its usual animation si
she made the quotation, for a feeling
passed over her heart, as if one ingre-
dient, and that precisely the most im-
portant one, was wanting; she could not
be satisfied that " love" presided in this
a^e of beauty and of grace.

The next morning the state xnonii
of the house were inspected. Hie
duke was the great patron of the fine
arts, and taste shone forth in eveiy
part of the stately edifice that was ex-
posed to view.

The picture gallery and the hall of
sculpture were celebrated far and wide,
particulariy the latter. Nor were the
figures promiscuously arranged that
decorated this scene of art ; on the
contrary, much care had been expend-
ed to form one haimonious whole. On
the dome which formed the ceiling was
painted ancient Saturn devouring his
ofispring as they rose into being, and
beneath this centre-piece were painted
the war of the Titans against Satan oo
the one side, and the war of the giants
against Jupiter on the other. Thus
far the ceiling. In the midst of the
marble floor stood the mighty Jupitei ,
armed with his thunderbolts, majestic
in strength and grand in intellectual
sensualism. Beside him, grouped sym-
metrically and appropriately, were the
legion of subordinate divinities — ^VennSi
attended by the graces ; Apollo, radi-
ant in beauty ; Hercules strangling the
serpents while he was yet in the cra-
dle; the Muses in various attitudeSi
with appropriate symbols of offiea*
Scarcely a god, goddess, or demi^

Tk§ Godfrey Family; or, QueiUoM of the Day

188

eould be named who was not here rep-
resented. Types of beautj — sensual,
intellectual, and physical; types of
grandeur and of tenor ; types of mys-
tery, beneath the veiled figure of the
B^ptian deitj, Isis ; types of know-
ledge and of artistic skill were there.
All that man bows before and wor-
ships when the sense of the sapema-
tiiral 18 shut, and he learns of 9elf to
deify his own passions, was here,
other delineated on the walls or chisel-
bd out in the sculptural forms. It was
ft Pantheon dedicated to all the gods
ofhvman sense, refined by beauty and
;nce, and polished by artistic merit
of the highest order. Unbounded and
mfeigDed was the applause elicited
from the party : hardly could they sat-
isfj themselves with gazing on these
perfect forms : even the lack of drapery
«emed scarcely a drawback. £u-
phruie, indeed, retired^ but she was so
itnnge habitually that her absence was
htrdlj commented upon ; and but for
the imile that went round the circle as
ibe left the hall, might have been
deemed unobserved.

^The true gods of the earth are
these j^U' said Mr. Godfrey, when
\ the door had closed behind the young
Fieoch girl, ^ and the race has sadly
degenerated siuce their worship was
ibiiDdoned.''

The young dnchcss and her sisters

bohed ap in mute wonder at tlie

I ipetker, but the duke cried, ^ Hear,

hen!* and the elder ladies tried to

M wise and responsive.

Ur. Godfrey continued : ^ That is
£1^ to a man which his mind worships
ttd reveres, and which to the extent
of hii power he strives to imitate.
! Mitt, the Roman emperor, under-
I vtood this well. He felt (what time
^ proved true) that the human
faune must degenerate when its
pivpoitionate and due development
coiies to be the primary object of the
iifUiUor. He saw that when, instead
of these glorious physical powers,
Aere is snbstitated a pale, emaciated
^pre nailed to a cross for the glori-
of an ideal good, that all na-

ture's teachings must become con-
fused, and a fake romance lead to de-
cay the powers that heretofore were so
b^utiful in their proportions."

** Surely, papa, you do not believe
in paganism,'' said Hester, wonder-
ingly.

"' Yes and no, Hester. In the fables
of the personal divinity of Jupiter,
Venus, and Minerva — ^No I In pagan-
ism as the expression of a grand idea,
well suited to man's capabilities, and
to his nature — Yes! You must not
confound the hidden meaning of the
myth with the outward expression.
The uninstructcd multitude will al-
ways look to the outward, and believe
the fables as facts, whatever religion
they profess, and oflen times they pene-
trate no further ; but the learned look
through the myth to the meaning, and
the meaning of the pagan myth is,—
Cultivate physical strengtli, in union
with intellectual power, worship
beauty, study and contrast nature.
Destroy infirmity : it is the most hu-
mane way, and the most just way.
Do not perpetuate disease. Let all
ill-constituted children die. Let the
conquered— f. «., the weaker — serve ;
it belongs to the strong to rule. To
develop the physical frame duly, Ly-
corgus caused even the young women
to wrestle publicly, without drapery
of any kind. Our more fastidious
tastes cramp the form of our women,
and distort the figure; and, worse
than this, our perverted tlieology dis-
torts their intellect, and makes it
afraid even to look at the human
form. Again, I say, Julian was
right. The Christianity ho forsook
has caused not only the degeneration
of human power, but has substi-
tuted false ideas of good. The real
has given place to the ideal, and a
sickly, romantic, sentimentalized race
has taken the place of the hardy
heroes of antiquity."

And Mr. Godfrey bowed profoundly
to the deities before him.

The duke hiughed and clapped his
hands. " WeU said, Mr. Godfrey,
well said. I hardly knew till now.

184

The Godfrey Family; or, Qyeeiunu of A» Day.

how great a benefactor I was to the
human race when I collected these
statues. Ilitliorto I have thrown
open mj house but once a week for
the public benefit. Henceforth I will
direct my steward to allow instructions
oftener in this temple of the true gods
of the earth. By the by, I believe
there is a very good chance of restor-
ing this gone-by worsliip, if, as you
say, it consists in the exaltation of
physical power. Science, in its dif-
fusion, is fixing men's minds on
material agencies, very much to the
exclusion of superstitious ideality.
We have only to throw in a vein of
the love of beauty, and much will be
effected toward bringing back men's
minds to the natural worship, here so
beautifully symbolized."

" I believe so," said Mr. Godfrey ;
''but, meantime, how much evil has
been effected by letting in upon the
race so many delicate constitutions!
How shall we restore the hardy races
that peopled the earth, when these
mighty types of glory ruled the popu-
lations ?"

" Indeed, it is difficult to say. Men
have accustomcul themselves to a
false estimate of mere vitality, as if life
without enjojTnent were worth the hav-
ing. We shall, I fear, find it difficult
to persuade English mothers to de-
stroy their diseased and crip])led chil-
dren for the good of the public, or to
train their daughters in the gynina-
slum."

" Would you seriously wish it, my
lord duke ? ' asked his wife.

" I hardly know. We are all tram-
melled more or less with the feelings
our mothers instilled into us. I think
Lycurgus a great man, and perfectly
reasonable. Had I been bom a Spar-
tan, I think I should have thanked the
gods for it, but now — "

'* Now," interrupted Mrs. Godfrey,
** you are more nearly a Sybarite. I
know of no one whom a cnimpled rose-
leaf disturbs more easily than your-
self."^

" Nay, Mrs. Godfrey, the argumen'
turn ad honUnem Is bardij fair ; but,

after all, I suppose we must admit that
character is geographical and chrono-
logical, besides being modified by indi-
vidual circumstance. I ihhik freelj,
but I am scarcely free to change mj
character ; so in legislating I must leg-
islate on public grounds fi:>r othen.
It does not follow that I can keep the
law I deem it fitting to make.

*' But if you cannot keep it, how
can others ? ' demanded Annie.

"Well asked, my fair sister*
asked not only by you, but by othen
also, and therefore is it that we most
practically legislate not as we think
best, abstractedly, but as nearly beat
as can be carried out So, as the peo-
ple are not yet ripe for ancient Spa^
tan laws, wo must be conXent yet a
while to diffuse the principle that phys-
ical development, ph} sical beauty, uid
physical power are the legitimate olh
jects of human worship. When we
liave accustomed the jHtople to adopt
these views, the rest may chance to
follow. Meantime, I see De Yillcneuve
coming up the avenue : excuse me for
an instant ;*' and somewhat to the sar-
prise of the party, the duke bolted
through the open door that led on to
the grounds to meet his friend, who
dismounted when he saw him coming.
In deep conference they slowly ap-
proached the house. There was ft
cloud on the duke's brow, but he
shook it off as he entered andgajly
introduced his friend.

" I am afraid De Villencave hardly
admires these divinities, Mrs. God-
frey ; let us adjourn to tlie drawing-
room."

" Nay, defend yourself, M. de Vil-
leneuve ; you will not plead guilty to
not loving art ?'^ said the lady addresft-
ed.

^No, indeed, dear madam, bif
grace is only avenging himself for
my criticisms. I suggested to him the
other day tliat he might get up another
temple of modem art as a Bupple-
inent to this, and he felt piqued, I sup-
pose; yet I have found him many
times standing rapt before a Madoonm.

^ The gentlemen decided this mon^

The Godfrey Family; or, QuutioM of the Day.

185

ing that these were the true gods of
Ae earth, and that Madonnas and
Crodfixions were false, unreal types,
and to be discouraged."

« Not possible!"

*'Nay, it is true, they were voting
a return to paganism."

«Bat you, ladies," said M. de Vil-
leneuve, ^ you, ladies, were not of that
oiod, sorely V^

"I don't' know," said Hester, mis-
dueroosly, " papa was very eloquent
m lauding ancient institutions."

"But,* said the comte, turning very
eiiMstly to her, " he did not tell you
bow woman was treated in the olden
time, before ^Msury'sJuU repaired the
fink of Eve. Women, intelligent,
beaotifal women, owe everything to
that divine Mother ; and if they cast off
their religion it is because the misery
is hid from them which the sex was
lolgect to formerly."

^ There is no necessity just now of
■aking it more clear," said Mr. Gk)d-
freydnly.

'*No," said the comte ; " and yet
then I see the tendency of the age, I
often feel that it would be safer did
oar ladies know the truth. Eve's fault
ihoald at least bring knowledge when
bowledge is necessary to truth. Wo-
ttn could not help but be fervently
religious, did she know from what an
•l^u of degradation Christianity has
Bttedher."

Mr. Grodfrey turned impatiently to
the window. ^^ It is splendid weather
farriding," said he ; *' suppose we or-
^ the horses."

CHAFTEB Vn.
XABRIAGE OB ISO HAIUUAGE.

BcT why was Adelaide so sad?
Whj was the young duchess appa-
'Qttlyiiiogt constrained when with her
hvhand ? Why, on the contrary, was
Kaa usual, gay, cheerful, and ani-
■tfad ? These were questions for a
ttoiher'a heart to ask, and yet, uneasy
V ihe WMM, Mrs. Godfrey asked them

not. She dared not seek the confi-
dence of her daughter, lest aught
should be betrayed which it were bet-
ter she should not know. She knew
that the confidence of a married wo-
man is sacred even from a mother, in
all that appertains to her husband;
and what other secrets could Adelaide
have]

Several days passed, and no 'clue
to the enigma was discovered. Par-
ties of pleasure were formed, the
grounds were traversed, the library
ransacked — ^literary, scientific, nay po-
litical excitement created for the
amusement and entertainment of the
guests; but no familiar, confidential
chit-chat gave occasion to the disclo-
sure of the secret which it was evi-
dent was weighing on Adelaide's
mind.

One morning, however, Mr. Grod-
frey shut himself up in the library, in
oixler to search through some volumes
for a passage he desired, and his
daughter entered, turning the key in
the door as she did so. Mr. Godfrey
looked up. Adelaide was pale and
trembling. He took her hand and led
her to a sofa. In a few moments she
partly recovered ; yet it was in a fal-
tering voice that she asked :

^^ Father, is a marriage with a Bo-
man Catholic valid V*

" Valid ? Yes, I suppose so ; why
not, my dear ?'

Adelaide became still more pale, but
did not answer.

Mr. Godfrey was alarmed. *• How
does this concern you, my child ?" he
asked.

**Why — why — the duke is then
married to another lady," faltered she.

^^ Impossible 1" said the father.
" Impossible ! he would not — dare not
do such a deed. You have been im-
posed upon, Adelaide. Tell me the
story, and the authority for it."

** Did you hear of a woman faint-
ing, almost under the carriage- wheels,
on the morning of my marriage, fa-
ther?"

« I did ; what of it, my child 1 "

*^ That woman believes herself to be

186

TMe Chdjreg f^nmkf; •r.

af da JDa^

his wife ! She followed ns, and
fnmted the dake in Scotland in a nar-
row glen. She watched day and ni^t
to speak to him ; her waging was
noticed, pointed out to me, and one
daj as he was returning home I saw
her start up from under a hedge and
stand before him. He eTidentlj
sought to avoid her, but she would
not be avoided ; she held him by the
skirts of his coat till he consented to
speak with her. Unperceiyed by both
I stole near them ; I heard her claim
him as her husband; I listened in
vain for his denial ; I heard him ui^
her to go home ; I heard him say that
he would satisfy her another time —
that it should be all right if she would
only quietly depart ; and I heard, too,
her indignant refusal to depart until
he had told her bis true name, and
where he was to be found. * To me,'
<he said, *you have called yourself
Colonel EUwood, and my boy has
borne that name!"*

" * Let him bear it still,* replied the
duke.

"*But is it the right one? is it
yours r ' slie shrieked.

***I am the Duke of Durimond,'
answered he. She fell fainting at his
feet. Unthinkingly, I pressed for-
ward to succor her, thus revealing
that I had overheard the conversa-
tion. The duke started, and said,
* This is no scene for your grace ; if
you will send an attendant from the
house yonder to wait on this poor
stranger, it will be kind of you.' I
did as requested, but tlie agitation of
my feelings caused an illness which
detained us a long time in Scotland.
I did not like to inform you of my ill-
ness then. The duke would have
been kind, but I liked not to see him
near me. Once or twice he tried to
explain to me that the whole was a
mistake, but I asked him not to men-
tion it. When wo came to London
he again triini explanation, but I told
him all explanation must be to you.
He endeavored in vain to shake my
resolution, and at length brought mo
htte and sent for you. A lawyer was

with him in London several ti
a Catholic priest was close
him the day he arrived. I
this unhappy business was t
of their visits, but I have ask
tng. We have held little ode
tion with each other since th
tnnate recognition in Scotlan<

** My poor child V* said th
^ and was this your honeymo

Adelaide laid her head oe
therms shoulder, and wept.

^ But why do you think thi
is a Roman Catholic, Adelaid

^ He told me so one day, a
fore, he says, the marriage
valid."

^ Perhaps it is so, Adelaide

^ But if it is so, she believe
his wife, and she is pure, got
cent ; it is written in her face.

^ My poor child T again ej
the father.

How long they sat sorrowi
lence they heeded not. Each
whichever hypothesb were tr
ried or not married, there wc
ness enough. At length the i
voices in the hall warned Ad<
seek her own apartment. Ikj
frey went immediately to the c

"My daughter has been i
this morning, your grace,'' sai
solemn, deliberate tones.

-Ah yes! WeU— Mr. Gk
well — your daughter is not qn
I fear."

** She is seriously unhapp
sorry to inform you, my lord d

"Unhappy! — ah! — well, w
has taken a youthful indiscr
mine somewhat too sorely to ha
you, Mr. Godfrey, know that t
tie affairs are common enough
of the world."

" My daughter speaks of a j
marriage, your grace."

" Pshaw ! some few words al
liave been made to signify toi
Adelaide is my wife, my duch<
her be satisfied on that point**

" It is just on that point all
satisfied — it is just on that pc
I DOW require to be satisfied."

Tk§ CM^ FamOg! or^ QueMnu of tk§ Dag.

187

m can I satisfy joa save by de-
inj other marriage ?^'
s no ceremony ever f^assed be-
foor grace and another woman
iims to be your wife ?**
legal ceremony, upon my honor
•bleman.^

legal ceremony ; some kind of
Dy has taken plaee, then ?" said
idfirey.
not a legal one, then none which

15 you. Be content, Mr. God-
mr daughter is indisputably a
I*

an. not content, my lord duke ;
see this other claimant to the du-
met," said Mr. Grodfrcy, rising.

heayen, you shall not!" an-

the duke, rising as suddenly;
hall not — indeed you shall not.
r poor Ellen, no: injured you
dm, but at least I will save you
isnlt.''
thinks your grace's words are

ones to the father of your
said Mr. Godfrey. ^Is the
f your mistress to be preferred
rf your wife ?"

; UB understand each other,
dfrey,** said the duke ; ^ and to

I must caution you not to say
rd in disrespect of the person
lely term my mistress. Listen :
years ago I met a being, love-
le, tender, innocent ; before one
iting a Romish priest I called
B ; she knew not, until now, the
■ not legal ; for fifteen years I
ta a simple gentleman, sought
iety when weary of ambition
the selfishness of the world ;
en years have I, at such inter-
I could steal away from gran-
d fiilse honors, found repose and
9is in the society of that gentle,
worldly being. Children have
oni to me and died, all save
loUe boy— one whom I would
train to deeds of glory, were
lalr-O £Uen, £llen T
d with such feelings as these,
ly joo dared to lead my dangh-

16 altar ?^ indignantly demand-
Godfrey.

"Yes, and why not?" replied the
duke. " Your daughter suffered no
injury. You sought for her not lovcj
but a coronet, and that she has now.
Let her enjoy it. I acted not the
hypocrite. I promised what I gave—
power, rank, grandeur, and respect;
these she has : what cause is there for
complaint ?**

"But why, if a peerless beau^
were already yours, why seek another
bride, my lord ? Why not have made
the lady of your love your duchess ?"

" Because— because — I knew not
her value at first. At first it was her
beauty that attracted me; then her
virtue kept me true to her, and I loved
her unworldliness, her want of ambi-
tion. To have made her a duchess
would have spoiled my dream of be-
ing loved for myself alone. Besides,
Ellen is a Catholic, a sincere one,
and never would she consent that a
child of hers should be brought up in
the paganism of these times."

"But why, I must yet inquire, why,
with these feelings, did your grace
marry at all ?"

" Why ? did I not want a duchess
in my halls ? a pagan heir to my Pan-
theon, sir? To whom were these
gorgeous collections of heathen idols,
these entailed estates, these titles, hon-
ors, to descend ? Ellen's son could not
inherit all, even were he legitimate.
His Catholic feeling would turn aside
in disgust from much, and English
law would exclude him from office or
dignity in the nation. Had I lived
anywhere but in England, perchance
my child had risen to compete with
the highest."

" He and his mother still hold, evi-
dently, the highest place in your affec-
tions. And is my dbsiughter for ever to
play second part in your heart, and
this incomparable miracle of goodness
the first?"

"Your daughter, sir, is to reign su-
preme, the imperial queen of the Par-
nassian deities. Juno-like, she treads
her path o'er high Olympus ; all bow
to her, and Jupiter himself shall treat
her ¥rith reverence, save when she in*

188

The Oodjretf Famify; or^ QuetUom of tks Da^

trades upon his private moments.
She has bargained for wealth, and
power, and pomp, and influence ; ahe
has them: let her be content. Love
was out of the *• bargain ;' it is useless
now to contend for it, as if it were her
due. But for my Ellen, you mis-
judge her, if you think that, with the
knowledge she now has, she would
ever admit me to her presence again.
I do not even know how I can induce
her to accept a maintenance from me
— ^from me, who would have died to
save her, yet who have caused her
such bitter pangs I Oh I I could stab
myself from sheer remorse I"

And the dark shade that passed over
the features, now convulsed with men-
tal agony, showed that the words were
not ones of mere expression.

Mr. Godfrey paused, yet was his
anger dot subdued ; he had not deem-
ed that the duke had so much of
human feeling in his composition.
Worldly and courtly as he seemed,
who could suspect go strong an under-
current 6f deep and passionate emo-
tion?

That this should be there, and not
felt for his wife I Mr. Grodfrey did
feel this an injury; though, as the
duke said, love had not been in the
bargain.

T\ie long pause was at length
broken by Mr. Godfrey's saying:
"Your grace must excuse me, but,
for my daughter's sake, I must insist
on obtaining evidence Uiat this mar-
riage, which you admit did take place,
was not legal. If I may not approach
the lady myself, who can procure me
the evidence I demand ?'*

** I know not — unless — stay ; I
would willingly make one more at-
tempt to secure Ellen's acceptance of
a provision for her child. Hitherto
she has rejected all mediation: not
only the lawyer, but De Villeneuve,
and a bishop of her own church, have
solicited her in vain to listen to such
an idea ; a lady — a Catholic might be
more successful. You have in your
ftunily one seemingly as pure and
good as Ellen's self— one holding the

same holy faith ; if she will co
undertake the mission, I will
to her the secret of Ellen's re
De Villeneuve will escort hei
doubt if she will gain adm
none have yet succeeded wli
from me."

" You mean Euphrasies
sumo V

" I do ; if you can trust to hei
I shall gladly make her my ai
dress to treat respecting the
provision to be made for mot
child.'*

" I will see her on the subje

" Tis well ; good mornin
Godfrey."

How little do we know of
ward feelings even of tboH
whom we fancy ourselves in
Here was the cold, heartless
pleasure, so-called by the w<
thought of by his father-in-law,
when left to himself, to the m
lent emotions of grief for the
Ellen. Had it been possible
moment to redeem her afiec
the sacrifice of earthly grandeu
is but little doubt that the 8
would have been made, for the
that sweet solace had never be
templated as a necessary aooc
ment to this marriage. For
years he had kept his incugnitc
society as Colonel EUwood,
Colonel Ellwood he meant to "9
still, and to indemnify himself
swoet society for the heart!
and cheerlessness of the dnci
sion.

This dream was at an end ;
cognito had been discovered,
once all intercourse was ovei
gay and courtly duke felt as if
terest in life had suddenly y\
from the earth. His outws
meaner appeared, indeed, unci
at least to superficial observi
those who looked beneath the
could detect a latent disdain
things ; and if the same pum
seemed to engage his attention
from liabit, or from want of
tiouy not from any relish for t

T^ Godfrty Famify; or, Queitiam of the Day.

189

itself. Little did the world
that his gay and polished man-
'ered a broken heart, and that
anificent owner of countless
es, the haoghty scion of a long
ancestors, was pining away Ihj-
lie blight which had destroyed
piness, and was eventually to
bis life. But we must not an-
, rather let us return to our
theme.

irasie heard with surprise and
* the position of her young
Ldelaide, but was most unwill-
indertake the negotiation pro-
it was only at M. de Vil-
's reiterated assurance that it
great work of charity which
manded of her, that she at
onsented.

leir arrival at the village, some
ramey distant from London,
ther yet from the duke's resi-
IL de Villeneuve requested
sie to proceed from the hotel
» EIlw<x)d cottage, as his pres-
old be suspicious, and proba-
vent her gaining admittance,
-haired, bright-eyed boy was
in the garden before the cot-
e came to the gate on seeing a
' approach, and as he held the
his hand, he said, before Eu-
addressed him :
imia is very ill, no one can see
ay.'

1 very sorry to hear that. Has
lOllong?''

, ever since she took a long,
imey, and came back so tired.
Dt to find papa, and did not
i/* and the child's voice drop-
I whisper : ** I think papa is
It I must not tell her so."
Y do you think so, my dear T*
aose he would never stay
) long if he were alive; he
id before: and when be did
aj he used to leave mamma
KMiey ; now she has no money
ind she is going away from

ve is she going to ?"

> not know ; but she says she

must work, and that I must work now
for my living ; so I know she must be
very poor."

" I want to see your mamma. They
say she is very kind. Tell her I am
a stranger — a French girl ; that I seek
kindness from her."

"Are you poor, too?" asked the
little boy.

"Yes, very poor, indeed," replied
Euphrasie.

" Then I will ask mamma if you may
come in ; mamma loves the poor."

When the boy returned he was ac-
companied by an elderly woman, bear-
ing the appearance of an upper ser-
vant. She addressed Euphrasie re-
spectfully : " Mrs. Ellwood can see no
one to-day, miss ; can you send in
your business by me T*

" Not very well, my business is per-
sonal ; shall I be able to see her to-
morrow ?"

" It is impossible to say, but you can
call and see ; to-morrow you may bo
able to find some one who will see you
in her stead ; she sees no one herself,
but she expects a friend to-night who
manages her business for her."

With this answer she was obliged to
be content: she returned to the hotel
where M. de Villeneuve awaited her.
" This is a bad business,'* he said ; " I
have been here twice before with no
better result, she will not see strangers."

" You have not seen her, then ?"

" No ! I have only heard of her, she
is almost adored here for her deeds of
kindness and charity. I never knew
of a case which excited my interest so
much ; it was on her account, not on
the duke's, that I assented to pay this
place so many visits. Gk)d only can
console her 1"

There was a sound of carriages in
the night, a very unusual thing in that
secluded village ; and in the morning
early, again there was the sound of
wheels. M. de Villeneuve strolled to
the end of the street ; he shook his
head on his return. " We are altoge-
ther too Iste^" he said; "the people

190

The Gcdfrt^ Family; or, QuuHmu of tke Ikf.

8ay that she is gone ; and many are
weeping, for ahe was dearly loved."

** Shall we not go to the house r*
asked Euphrasie.

^ There is no haim in making the
inquiry, hut she is not there."

It was even so : Mrs. Ellwood had
departed, fearing that if she remained
there she should he constantly subject
to intrusion. In the parlor into
which they were shown, Euphrasie
found one whom she was little pre-
pared to see : it was M. Bertolot. A
general^ grasping of hands and affec-
tionate recognition took place ; and
then the old priest inquired their bu-
siness. ^^ The bishop sent me here,' he
said, << because he could not come
himself, and because the poor lady en-
treated the utmost secrecy; but what
brought you here ?*'

M. de Villeneuve took up the ^ord :
" We came from the duke ; his grace
thought our young friend here might
find admittance, though we were all
refused."

^ Hid grace need not dream of any
such thing ; the wrong he has done is
not such }is embassies or money can
rectify. The lady is a true-hearted,
noble woman, a sincere Catholic ; the
message that she has \efi for him is
simply that *she forgives him, and
will pray for his conversion ; but if
ever he loved her, she entreats that he
will never more pursue her or send to
her.' "

" But how is she to be 8upportc<l ?"

" She trusts in God, who is a hus-
band to the widow, and a father to the
fatherless. The dukes money she will
not touch ; it is no use to press the
matter, she has a woman's instincts, and
that is oflen better than a man's rea-
soning.*'

" You are severe, father, but this is
a case to make you so ; may we not
know where she is gone to ?"

'• No ! you may not even know you
saw me here ; say only you saw her
agent, who gave you her message, and
would not tell you her residence. Never
let the duke or the Godfrey family
know that the bishop sent me here."

^You may depend on i
But is this all that we a
to the duchess ? You know
tion has been raised respi
validity of the marriage."

^ The bishop examined thi
he would have been glad to
true one, but the scamp wl
them was a disguised you
thrift, who did not know hoi
out of a debtor s jail in any
than by taking that wicked f
Godfrey is uneasy on that
can apply to the bishop, tl
address."

When M. de Villeneuve
phrasie returned to Durim
with the result of this mic
found Adelaide far less pla
the more deeply injured £11
pressed herself by her mess
assented indeed to do the
the castle, to reign suprem
insisted on a virtual 8e))aFai
price of her continuing to
title of the Duchess of Dai

The duke was in no bun
tend with her ; perhaps evi
as well pleased to have i
was careful to surround he
imaginable tokens of defe
respect, and told Mr. G
would see what time would
en his haughty Juno. Soc
accepted the office of amh
a foreign court, and thus h
at liberty to queen it o'er 1
at her pleasure.

Meantime we lay before
ers the sad history which
sioned all this conmiotion*

CHAPTER ym.

EI.LEX*S HISTORY.

Ellen D* Aubrey was i
ter of an Iiish officer, who
ther (Ellen Carpenter) ha
asrainst the wishes of h
Our heroine was their c
Soon after her birth the nM

The Godfieif FamUy; w, Quaiians of the Day.

191

vej, fell into delicate health,
ears of pain and suffering en-
ifter which she died, leaving £i-
en ten years old, to condole her
id for her loss. This, however,
ot 80 easj, for Captfiin D'An-
ad truly loved his refined and
wife, and the illness she had
nith fao much sweetness and pa-
bad the more endeared her to
resides which, during that sick-
» had learned many important
• Up to that time his wife,

amiable and affectionate, had
t but little on serious subjects,
i, though nominally a Catholic,
^ected bis religion. But when

came, and the wife and mo-
wame aware that though she
linger on a while, she could not
health, and must leave behind
»e so dear to her, then an anx-
' future reunion took possession
She began to question her
d of religion, and he, recalling

solace the lessons of his youth,
3 himself impressed with their
ftnce. Catholic truth and Cath-
Dsolation were poured into the

the departing wife, and hav-
pocured her every necessary
e captain imparted himself a
consolation by promising to
over the education of their dar-
lild, and endeavor to bring her
the faithful performance of her
as a Catholic Christian, without
pering her faith by permitting
frequent schools or sociiety hos-
her religion.

noble - hearted captain had
y closed the eyes of the being
I so dear, than he began to con-
bow he might best fulfil his
e. He sold his commission, and
on a small annuity which he
(ed, applied himself to develop
^d the powers that lay en-
in her soul ; but above all, he

to cherish and to strengthen
IS principle. Well did the lit-
len repay his care. At that
if»£ngUind, there were few ex-
lada to raligioiL Catholic chap-

els were few and far apart. One
priest attended many missions, and
these but stealthily ; but so much the
more sedulously did the captain en-
deavor to infuse the spirit of religion
into the soul of his child, and to ani-
mate her with patience, meekness, hu-
mility, and universal charity. Loving
and beloved, she grew up beneath her,
father's eye like a beautiful fiower,
reciprocating his tenderness, and in-
creasing daily in beauty and accom-
plishments. Suddenly a dark cloud
lowered above that happy home*
Captain D^ Aubrey was seized with a
fever, and in three days expired, leav-
ing Ellen, at the age of sixteen, an
orphan, ahnost penniless, cast upon
the world's cold charity.

Strangers made out her connexions,
for Ellen was stupefied by the blow.
Strangers wrote to Mrs. Carpenter,
her maternal grandmother, and be-
fore Ellen well knew what she was
about she was travelling south with
an old lady, who endeavored in vain
to rouse her from her sorrow.

When the captain's affairs were ar-
ranged, but little was found remain-
ing. His annuity ceased at his death.
It had just sufficed for their mainten-
ance ; and as the sale of the furniture
amounted to very little, the poor girl
was utterly dependent.

Such was the account given by Mrs.
Carpenter to Mrs. Barford, her mar-
ried daughter, with whom, being her-
self a widow, she then resided. Mrs.
Barford had married a man whose
character was the very reverse of that
of Ellen's father. He was a thorough
business-like, money-making instru-
ment, having no higher idea than to
be continually extending his business,
no higher ambition than to be mayor
of the city in which he resided. Al-
ready he was a great man in his own
estimation, and he intended that his
family should become of importance
also. This couple received Ellen but
coldly, though she hardly knew or felt
it, for she was as yet absorbed iu
grief. Mrs* Carpenter intended to bt
kind, and insisted on Ellen's giief be*

192

The Godfrey Family; ovj Quuiians of the Day.

ing respected. A week or two pnsiicd,
then it was propased one Sunday to
Ellen to go with the family to church.
She excused herself. Another week
passed — and the same proposal was
repeated. On this she was closely
questioned as to the reason why ; and
when Mr. Barford camo at length
to iniderstund that Ellen was a
Catholic, his anger knew no bounds.
A Catholic in his own house I Jle
feed popery ! Jfe foster rebellion !
Jfe countenance powder-plots! The
thing was im{)ossible ! the girl must
leave the house — she would corrupt
the cliildren, contaminate the servants,
compromise his re8i)ectabilit3', pervert
the neighborhood; in short^breed every
kind of disorder and endanger his
l)ositi(>n. Go she must. In vain his
wife i)leaded that the poor girl had no-
where to go to ; she was obliged to
summon Mrs. Carpenter to her aid.
As the old lady had plenty of money,
Mr. Baiford held her habitually in
respect, especially as she could will it
as she i)I(»a8cd; therefore, when she
insisted that where she was her
grand-daughter should find a home,
the great man yi(dded, and among
themselves they arranged a plan
which was to counteract the evil in-
fluence they dn^aded. Mrs. Carpen-
ter undertook to watch Ellen closely,
and by degrees to win her from her
papistry: and as there was no papist
church in the locality, the neighbors
need not even know wlmt her religion
was.

As for powder-plots, the good old
lady argued that a girl of sixteen,
without fric'uds, money, or resources,
couhl not effect nnich against the gov-
cniment, so she was not uneasy on
that score. Silenced, but not con-
vinced, Mr. liarfonl, who dared not
disoblige his wife's mother, said no
more (»n the subject to her, but ho
determined to keep a sharp lookout,
and nip in the bud any inci]nent con-
spiracy. But under these influences,
the i>oor girl's happiness was sadly
compromised. Her grandmother un-
dertook to enlighten her as to the

character of these papists, to ghow
her what a terrible set these anfoitu-
natc, benighted idokters are, and so to
bring her round to the Pn>te8tant es-
tablishment. Most liorrible tales of
conspiracies, plots, mnrtrydoms, in-
quisitorial victimizing, and eveij
species of villanons scheming for the
overthrow of pure religion, were re-
counted to her. These failing to make
impression, the sin of idolatry was
brought home to herself, nnd on Fri-
days the crime of not eating meat
was by no means accounted a snull
one. A regular series of petty pe^
secutions were commenced, the child-
ren of the family were taught to dis-
trust her; she was not allowed to
make acquaintances in the neighbor*
hood, nor to stir out, save at her
grandmother*s side.

The old lady meant well in the
part she took in this; she was not
aware of the greater portion of the
annoyance Ellen underwent, and she
thought time only was wanted to en-
able her to throw off the prejadioei
of her education. She really liked
Ellen for her refinement nnd gentle-
ness, and kept her as much as she
could alx)ut her. She made her read
to her, and wait upon her ; nnd tbou^
the books were not to Ell«m*s taste,
yet this was by far the most tolerable
jwrtion of her existence. But even
of this small alleviation, Airs. Barford
grew jealous ; she was greatly afrud
tliat her mother would leave too great
a i>ortion of her wesilth to the poor
ori)lian girl, nnd her harshness in-
creased in proportion as Mrs. Carpen-
ter's partiality manifested itself. She
did not hesitate to impute the most
unworthy motives to Ellen for paying
such kind and respectful attentions to
her grandmother, for Elleu*s condoet
contrasted too ])ainfully with that of
the unruly children of the housebdld;
and when by her reproaches MrSi
Barford drew tears from the poor
girl's eyes, she would bid her **go
and warm herself into her grand-
mother's favor, by her ^eouitien)
caresses and her crocodile

1%B €Mfrmf Family; mr, Qm$^iont of the Day.

198

! it was no wonder that she
ale and thin and miserable ;
id of being induced to gire
eli^on, she clung to it the

more the stood in need of
n. And thus a year, a long
rj year, had passed away.
1 a partial respite came,
center was taken sick ; Ellen

her most assiduously ; but
she could scarcely be spared
3, on account of the comfort
ice seemed to afford the sick,
Barford's jealousy, and her

ill-treatmenty considerably
Measures were often
' between this amiable pair,
i derised to effect an es-
it between Ellen and her
ler. The old lady partially

and then Mrs. Barfoid
lent on the wonderful effects
lange of air. By dint of
ng, she at length made the
woman consent to dispense
i's attendance at the water-
to which they were bound,
ford went herself to take
!r mother, and her children
ed her.

•as now virtuftUj alone, for
rd was engaged in his busi-
lid not wish to be troubled
iompany, even at his meals,
lief I Ellen heard the car-
3 from the door with a feel-
se from bitter thraldom. How
^t last she knew not, but
or some weeks. She read
idks — her father^s books — so
faled at the bottom of her
opened the piano, and sang
of the church. She took
^h-book, and reviewed the
bad visited with her father.
her spirits rose, her eyes
ler animation returned, and
s of the day she retired to
16 first time in that house,
hi and joyous spirit. The
ng she was up with the lark.
d her window to inhale the

VOL. IT. 13

balmy air, and a gush of joy came over
her as she felt that she was secui^
from annoyance at least for a time. A
hasty breakfast was soon despatched,
and the fragrant, breeze driving in at
the window, attracted her attention to
the flowery meadows. Her spirits
were too keen to permit her to sit still,
and as the bright sunshine poured in
upon her, she asked herself why she
should not enjoy it out of doors ; she
had been imprisoned so long, and now
there was no one to rebuke or find
fault with what she did. She ooold
not withstand the temptation. ^\
will go and sketch the ruins of the al^
bey," she said, <<and meditate on
the times the good old monks were
there." Sketch-book in hand she sal-
lied forth. The streets of the oitj
were soon traversed, and the avenues
leading to the ruins more slowly paced.
The morning was one of most glorious
beauty. The birds sang in the new-
leafing groves, the busy bees hummed,
and the dew-drops clinging to the tips
of the fresh-springing grass, presented
a most dazzling appearance as, waving
in the sunshine, they reflected hues ^
every color, and freshened with new
life the whole creation. Ellen's spirits
were at their height ; yet with some-
what of a solemn step she approached
the liallowed solitudes. None was
there save herself — at least she perceiv-
ed none. Long she wandered within
the precincts trodden by holy feet of
old, and at length sat down on a fallen
tree to begin her sketch.

The ruin had formerly been sup-
rounded by a moat ; even now one side
of this remained, and communicated
with the river. By the side of this,
our heroine took her seat on the fallen
tree. How long she sat she knew not
It was a great delight to her once
more to handle the pencil so long laid
aside. She worked as if inspired, and
the main features were at length de-
scribed with taste and accuracy. In
her eagerness she had untied her bon-
net, (which was a close one, covering
her face, after %ie fashion of those
days,) and pushed it slightly bttdE,

194

Tke Godfrey FawUfy ; mr, QmnHom 0f ike Daof.

thus displaying her animated features,
imconscions the while that a stranger
was gazing at her, and that for up-
ward of an hour he had been tracing
her features in his gratified imagina-
tion.

At length she rose to depart, but as
she was putting up her sketchi her
bonnet fell from her head, and would
have rolled into the river had not the
stranger caught it, as it reached the
brink, and gracefully restored it to her.
He was older than herself and wore an
officer's uniform. Could there be any
harm in thanking him, and in unfolding,
at his request, the sketch which had oc-
casioned the accident ? Ellen thought
not of harm. She was unversed in Uie
world's ways, and had experienced
more of its annoyances than its dan-
gers. Insensibly a conversation was
entered into. It was prolonged until
the shadows proclaimed that the sun
was verging to the west. Tlie stranger
was evidently pleased and surprised
at Ellen's keen sense of natural and
artistic beauty, and at the simple yet
poetic manner in which she clothed her
ideas. The themes dilated on touched
exactly his favorite hobby, and it was
evidently a gratification to him to find
one fresh in feeling, endowed with ge-
nius and beauty, who could appreciate
his feelingd and sympathize with his
artistic tastes.

Reluctantly he parted with his com-
panion, and on the morrow he seemed
intuitively to know where hs should
find her, to renew the enjoyment of
the previous day. Another day came,
and another, until at length it became a
matter of course that the two should
meet. And still it was only poetry, or
music, or painting, that occupied them.
Why, then, did Ellen half surmise that
the meeting was wrong ? One day she
did keep away, and thought she would
try to do so always, but the hours hung
heavily on her hands, and her resolu-
tion tailed ; so the walks continued.

At length the period for her aunts
return arrived, and m>t only must she
expect to be virtual' imprisoned as
before, but the dread of what her aunt

would say when she heard (i
from some kind, gossiping
she would hear) of her daily ir
with a strange gentleman, br
her. Why had she fkol thoog
before ? Why had she y\M
temptation ? All too late tb
tions now, and those only n
what it is to live amid insult
kct can appreciate her feelin
timate the temptations to whid
exposed.

The stranger, who called
Colonel Ellwood, had travelk
he spoke to her of Italy, of
France ; he had brought her
which the Pope had blessed,
described to her in glowing tei
of the ceremonies which he
nessed. Why should she
him ? With tears in her eye
him that in two days her aunl
pected home, and that these ir
must cease. ''Indeed," sbi
^I am afraid my aunt will
me when she finds they hi
taken place."

^ Then why not forestall hi
by your own departure ?"

" And to what quarter of ti
should I go ?' asked Ellen.

** If, sweet hidy, you wot
yourself with me,^ said Cok
wood.

Ellen started and shraa
but the colonel followed her,
^ Nay, do me not the injustio
pose that I would wrong you ;
pression yon have made upon
life ; your happiness, your he
as dear to me as my own soc
marriage I offer you — a homaj
riago, though a private one.
cumstances at this moment a
liar. But fly with me, and
olic priest shall bless ourn
swear it on my honor."

Ellen hesitated, but her ve
tation encouraged hope. 1
passed. Another came. Again
Ellwood urged flight. Again
beset her lest her aunt should
these clandestine meetings. L
for the stranger, who^ aHfao

The CM^reff Famlf; or, Qmt^ofu of 0$ Da^.

195

7700 evidently refined, caltivat-
irell Tersed in all human kam-
w rapidljT since he had declaiv
»ve. To lose him was to lose
ng; for who save he had
j^Lness to the poor, friendlesfl
^1 ? The time passed : — the
I at hand — a restless day —
ess night — ^haunted bj the
if carriage wheels bringing
r tyrant to her home. Ellen s
n gave way: two hoars before
It's arrival she quitted that
; of strife for ever.
lel EUwood appeared to keep
aise. One in the dress of a
\ priest united them in mar-
id to Ellen*s &ncy that there
aewhat of informality in the
ty, came the ready reply that
lecessitated by the anomalous
of a Catholic priest in Eng-

oiew little or nothing of the
I for some time afterward she
on the Continent with her
L Here no doubt harassed
ve for him excluded doubt,
t love at times nearly reached
ht of adoration. On the other
e happiness of geniality, com-
dth the high mental culture
ler husband loved to promote,
10 intellectual, nay so ethereal
cssion to her naturally hand-
fttures, that his love and rever-
ereased as time wore on, and
d not tell the being who thus
ioved him for himself alone,
illy he had deceived her. In
I she was an angel of light;
Apom offering impediments to
llling her religious duties, he
d in her constancy; though
ere times when a cloud came
n, and he felt as if he were
smon of darkness by her side,
I to become the destroyer of

ress. At such moments,
was in mute amazement
arozysms which assailed him
Itrive by every endearing art

«■ tafon tiM CftttMlle tnumcipaaoa bUl
I.

to charm away his melancholy, and
by so doing sometimes nearly drove
him to frenay ; and alarmed her for
his sani^, without decreasing her af*
fection. But these fitful moments
passed away. Continental troubles
drove them back to England, and
here Colonel Ellwood's difficulty in
keeping his incognito increased. Some-
times he took an abode for her in the
North of Scotland, sometimes in the
mountains of Wales ; his restlessness
and anxiety distressed and pussled
her, he was not the same man in Eng-
land he had seemed on the Continent.
He was often absent, too, for weeks,
nay for months together ; bat ihis he
accounted for so plausibly on the score
of army duties and the like, that Ellen
tried to be satisfied, especially as he
carried on a constant correspondence
with her, and always sent her regular
and plentiful remittances. But one ci>
cumstance puazled her even in this—
it was that she had to address all her
answers to him under cover to his law-
yer. This person, who knew nothins
of Ellen, beUeved it was a sort of af
fair common among the nobility, young
and old, and performed the business
part of the transaction faithfully as re-
garded transmitting money and letters,
while he gave himself no further trou-
ble about the matter.

The time of discovery arrived but
too soon. Ellen's child had been ilL
and she had taken him to the sea-
coast to restore his health. It was
the first time that she had ever left
the residence appointed for her by
her husband without his sanction and
permission, and it was the urgency of
the case that prompted her to deviate
from this settled plan. She thought
to be gone only a few days, and his
last letter had bidden her not to ex-
pect him for a month or two, as press-
ing business was to be imperatively
attended to ; so there was little chance
of his being displeased at the proceed-
ing, indeed he had never been really
displeased with her. She went, then,
and on the beach she was reoogniied
by a lady she did not xemember, bat

196

2%e Chdfrey Famihf ; or, Quistumt of tke Day.

who chanced to hare a better memory
than Ellen. The lady appeared to be
somewhat of a morose and malignant
disposition, and entered into conversa-
tion apparently to gratify some ill-na-
tured feeling. Ellen was annoyed
and would have avoided her, but the
other evidently had an object in view.
At last she blurted out :

*'' So the Duke of Durimond is to be
married soon, I hear.''

**I do not know,** said Ellen, «*I
have no acquaintance among the
great."

^ No acquaintance with the Duke of
Durimond, madam ? Why, surely I

saw you at Hotel in Liivemess-

shire with him three years aga"

^ In Invemess-shiro I was with my
husband, but I saw no duke there."

"Your husband, ma'am! the gen-
tleman was called Colonel Ellwood,
was he not? Well, then, madam,
the world believes Colonel Ellwood
and the Duke of Durimond to be the
same person. But, to be sure, yon
ought to know best. I can only say
I was told so, often, in Inverness-shire,
and now the duke is gone to marry
Miss Godfrey of Estcourt Hall; is
that a secret also to you P*

The woman evidently gloated in the
pain she inflicted, and stood gazing
at the victim. Ellen replied not — she
was thunderstruck. Then she deem-
ed it impossible. She turned back to
the house, gave up the lodgings, and
returned to her former home. There,
making necessary arrangements, she
left her child in the care of trustwor-
thy servants, and ordering a post-
chaise, was driven, as fast as horses
could carry her, to the house of the
London lawyer, travelling night and
day till she reached her destination.

The lawyer, Mr. Reynolds, would
not reply to her questions. He begged
the lady to go home, saying that Col-
onel Ellwood would soon be with her,
and that he would be the best person
to explain all mysteries. He, Mr.
Reynolds, really was not in a position
to satisfy her.

What an answer to an
heart ! mystery upon myster]
since they came to Enguind, •
long absences take place ?
she not know his address?
a long list of whys that sorely
ed her heart. What was s
now? Being thus far, she
at least she would go dowt
court Hall and try to catch f
of the Duke of Durimond ; s
know then if the report that :
him with her husband was
truth.

She turned suddenly on thf
•* Where is the Duke of Duri
tins instant ?* Her man n er,
her usual calm demeanor, sta
Reynolds, and put him off his

" I believe, madam, the d
the mansion of the Hon. Mr. '
at Estcourt."

** What is he doing there ?*

" The world reports him as
be married."

Ellen turned in a resolute
to the door — the lawyer folio
" Be persuaded, ma'am, go
peace; all will be right in tim*
me."

Ellen got into the post-ch
ordered the driver to proceed
sex without delay. That n
was at Estcourt. The next
we have seen, she approac
carriage, recognized the dui
Colonel Ellwood, followed hi
bridal tour, spoke with him, i
returned, as best she migfal
now dreary home.

The duke sent to her— «he
not his messages ; he wrote-
tunied his letters unopened ; 1
on a Roman Catholic pre]at<
fess the transaction, and beg <
take care that Ellen was suiti
vided for ; but the bishop, aiti
Ellen and becoming interestc
story, would not receive anj
from the duke on Ellen's acooi
said she refused it, and he c
acquiesce in her decision. 1
was utterly perplexed.

TO IB OONTniW).

I%$ Fmmdtn <^ I\nmek Vmtg.

187

Tnntlated from La Oorrespoodant

THE FOUNDERS OF FRENCH UNITY.*

BT THB OOUHT DB OHXMPAGNT.

; readers are oertainlj not igno-
ther of the name or the book of
Carn^ The work which he
ted m 1848, on the eve of the
ion of February, attracted the
; as well as the suffrages of all
persons. This book reappears
cakner times, and the mass of
^ho read may know and appre-

idea of this book is well known.

Cam^ has been struck with
nstitutes the peculiar genius of
inch nation, its unity. He has
to ascertain and trace the origin

unity ; and has found it sum-
» in a few proper names, and has
ted in the history of a small
' of statesmen that of the ua-

ing could be more proper. We
least republican of any nation
od has made, and we are so
\ the French nation is more
one than any other, and more
ly other needs a chief. Aban-
to ourselves, and obliged, will-
ir unwillingly, to take eiehch a
J part in the common action, we
)rtii very little; but we are
l^ when we are commanded,
t know if Shakespeare is right
lecallA France the Soldier of
Dt what appears to me certain
we are much better soldiers
tisens. In France the citizen
apid lout who, three-fourths of
e» lets himself be led, and miser
idy either by a journal or a
g diief of a club ; he abdicates
' and oopsents to be led blindly
passiona of others. He cries
ih for Revolution r when he

JBrtimttM. IftlMOoaiillbfteOterai.

thinks he is only crying " Hurrah lor
Reform!'' and mii^es a reTolution
without intending it, and makes it to
the profit of his enemies. The soldier,
on the contrary, finds in obedience the
element of his spontaneity, of his in-
telligence, I had almost said, of hia
liberty. He was but a peasant, very
dull and lubberly when he was free ;
put upon him the coat of passive obedi-
ence, and he acquires abilities which
seem to belong only to liberty. He is
prompt, he is sagacious, he is intelli-
gent ; faithful to his commander when
his commander guides him, full of
activity and spontaneity, if by chance
the commander fails him. Why is
this ? Why is the English citizen so
intelligent in commercial and political
life, so hampered under the red coat ?
Why is the French peasant so stupid
when he is taken from his plough, so
much at his ease when in uniform"?
To this I know no answer, unless it be,
that (Tod has so made us. In France,
the soldier is more himself when under
discipline than the citizen in his liberty.
It ia not, then, surprising that the his-
tory of a people, I will not say so
royalist, but so monarchical in the
etymological sense of the word, should
be summed up in the proper names of
a few men.

The Abb^ Suger, St Louis, Du
Guesclin, Joan of Arc, Louis XL,
Henry IV., Richelieu, Mazarin : such
are the personages whom M. de Carn^
has selected, and who he shows have
gradually effected the development of
French unity. It is in the succession
of these names that we can follow with
him that development

However, it is not necessary to
believe, and M. de Garn6 does not pre-
tend it^ that these men made Freooh

198

The Fimmdm ^ Unmek UwOg,

onitj. It has been made by itself.
France was reallj one in fact before
being made so by the government and
laws. From the tenth centuryy when
all Gaul was parcelled out, when the
large provinces all belonged to masters
independent in fact, save for the nom-
inal law of vassalage, hardlj acknow-
ledged, this divided nation felt herself
already one, felt herself already a na-
tioo. She h^B been one ever since, in
reacting against the yoke of the Ans-
trasian dynasty of the Garlovingians,
she commenced to reject from her midst
the Germanic race, language, and in-
stitutions. She had her language-^we
find it distinctly in the oath of 843 ; she
had her ciq>ital-^hat little mud city
which began to pass the arm of the
Seine and to spread itself from the isl-
and over on the right bank, was already
the centre of French life. She had her
dynasty — that kinglet possessor of a
narrow domain, which he dispated with
great feudatories more powerful than
he, was already and for all the king of
France. She was already herself
advancing to the time when the grand-
son of Robert the Strong would make
himself obeyed from the Rhine to the
Pyrenees, the Umgue d Oyl would be-
come the common tongue of Christen-
dom, and all the fiefs from Flanders to
the Mediterranean would hold from
the great tower of the Louvre.

Thus it seems to me that one of the
most important facts in our history,
though little remarked, is the first
armed manifestation of France under
Louis the Fat At the time the
Emperor Henry Y. penetrated into
Champagne with a German army, the
king, who, according to his own ex-
pression, had grown old at the siege of
Montlh^ry, in a few weeks found him-
self at the head of three hundred
thousand men, united as a thick cloud
of grasshoppers, who cover the banks
of the rivers, the mountains, and plains.
A few weeks more, and the great vas-
sals, the Count of Flanders, the Duke
of Aquitaine, the Count of Brittany,
brought him new reinforcements,
sod lus army, laiaed to four hundred

thousand men, was double ibm
emperor, which was itself ei
for the middle ages. Tliepditic
however, which miited those <
countries which are to-day
France, was very feeble. Tb
sals, present at the camp of L
Fat, rendered him scarcely a o
ial homage. What bond cou
so many different populationa
defence of a territory whidi,
epoch, had scarcely a name, il
not communis of origin and a<
aversion to the Grermanic dom
The French nation was then o
at that epoch, when the king f
of only five of oar present depi
at most. She made herself one
self and her blood, before beu
so by kings and laws.

In all we have been ourseb
more ourselves than we thiu
are neither Franks nor Yisigo
are Gallo-Romans. We are G
ilized by Rome, and baptised
church. The influence of th(
domination has been more sa
than was believed in the last c
the name remains to us, but w
remains ? Li the language, v
the great symbol of national
Germanic element^ whether ii
or in forms of speech, has e
been only secondary ; and it
no traces in the national charac
institutions the Germanic
^dominated for a time, for the
reason that it possessed the
power; but it was the labor
middle ages, and we can u
glory, to efface it.

In &ct, the struggle against
ism and feudal institutions
speak truly, a national struggle
were traces of Grerman doi
during four centuries which
necessary to effitce. The da;
France demanded of the h
Robert the Strong a cliief, kins
but a chief to oppose to the J
sovereignty of the Oarlovingii
day she commenced, withoat 1
it, the struggle against the ins)
which grew out oif the ~

Th0 Fwnden of Hremsk Uki^.

199

qaesL That struggle was oontinned
under St. Louis, the epoch of the great
ndiatioo of French power, when the
Mediterranean was almost our domain ;
when we established colonies even on
tke eoasts of Africa ; when our mis-
Moaries penetrated even to Thibet;
when the sons of Genghis Khan were in
dqikmuuic relations with us, and when
e?eD is Italj they spoke by preference
our koguage as ^ the most delightful"
and the most ^nerally undersuHxl of
UT in the world.

in (his work the church came to our
lid. The great struggle of the papacy
VIS also against the pride of the Grer-
■loie supremacy. It was against the
iiMidalism planted in the church,
apinst feudatory bishops who bore
anaor, and carried the faicon on their
vmt, who held their dioceses as fiefs,
and received their investiture from the
German suzerain, and against the
longs their patrons, that St. Gregory
TIL wielded the papal power. It was
igainst the institutions of Grermanic
harbarism, against the feudal aristoc-
aqr, agamst tests by fire and water,
Igainst private wars and judicial com-
lata, that the church, and especially
the papacy, never ceased to struggle.
There was, then, during a whole cen-
tuy a perfect accord between the
ngi of France and the pontifis of
Bone, between the independence of
the commons and the franchises of the
nKgions orders, between the authority
tf the legists and Uiat of the councils.
And for these institutions introduced
kf the Grermanic conquests, and wliich
*e ia accord with the church com*
hied, what have wc in accord with
kdiirch substituted? The institu-
tioM proper to our race, proper to our
MilKNis as a civi^sed people, proper
t»oir manners as Christians. For
fcidalism the idea of direct power such
M Borne bad taught, and such as
dariemmgne comprehended and at-
~ to revive ; in other words, for
nty sovereignty ; for the juris-
of kwds was substituted in
apiritaals that of ecclesiastical judges,
k laaponla that of royal justices;

consequently, for feudal law tlic canon
law of Christian, and the civil law of
imperial Borne. For the riglit of private
battle we substituted the possession of
arms remitted to the sovereign alone, as
in Rome and in all civilized countries.
For duels and judicial trials by fire
and water we substituted trials by wit-
ness, according to the Roman law and
the law of the churdi and of all
civilized nations. In a word, we effiioed
the traces of Germanic paganism and
barbarism, to become in our laws once
more what we were by blood, Grallo-
Romans ; what we were by our faith,
Christians ; what wc still are by our re*
miniscences, civilized men. Such was
the work of our race from Robert the
Strong to St. Louis, of the popes from
Gregory VIL to Gregory IX-, of our
commons from the 6rst communal re-
volt to the enfranchisement of the soris
under Louis lo Hutin, of the church
from the day when she proclaimed
the truce of Grod, and constituted
to sustain it a sort of universal Laud'
foehr, to that in which she canonized,
in the person of St. Louis, the type, not
of the feudal chief, but of the Chris-
tian king. Only from this union of all
forces in retcrence to a siii^i^Ie end,
essentially national, legitimate, and
Christian, there was one unhappy ex-
ception, that of the nobility, the heir,
whether by blood or position, of the
Grermanic traditions, investitures, and
institutions, and who became a sort of
common enemy. They were found,
in spite of their patriotism, standing
apart from the nation, and unpopular
in spite of the many ties which bound
them to the popple. The church,
royalty, even the legists had their place
in the popular affection, but the nobil-
ity had none. They were suspected by
the government and abandoned by it
to the suspicions of the people. Hence
they were so much the further re-
moved from the political tendency of
the nation as they were nearer to its
political action, and all the less dis-
posed to co-operate in the work of
national elaboration as they were more
open to the seductions of foreign

too

The Fmmdgn of JWvmI Dmig.

polities. Hence thev oould make the
war of the Annagnacs in the four-
teenth century, the war of the Public
Grood in the fifteenth, the religious
wars of the sixteenth, and of the
Fronde in the seventeenth ; but it was
never theirs to exercise that popular,
regular, pacific action, the action of pa-
Uoiiage and defence, exercised hy the
aristocracy of England. Tliey had only
the choice, on the one hand, of a selfish,
unpopular revolt against the king«-
a revolt resting on the enemies of
France for its support, or on the other,
of service to the crown, a service which
they gloriously and courageously ren-
dered indeed, but which was a service
of periect obedience, in which there
was nothing to be gained for their
order, in which indeed they could reap
glory, but not power. Never has
there been a real aristocracy in France
—there has been only an obedient or
an insubordinate feudal nobility.

Thus may be given in brief the sum
of the first part of M. de Gam^ s book ;
and this first part foretells what is to
follow. The position of royalty, the
nobles, and the commons respectively,
was during four centuries developed
only on bases furnished by the middle
ages. The development effected in
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries
M. de Cam6 has personified in Suger,
abbot of St. Denis, and St. Luuis —
an able and intelligent choice. Suger
and St. Louis were two rare statesmen
in an epoch when statesmanship hardly
existed. Suger, formed by the rigid
and wise discipline of the church, a
full-grown man in the midst of the
childish caprices and inconsequences
of his age, a real statesman, although
the minister of a king who was no
statesman at all, was certainly one of
the greatest and most intelligent agents
in the national work, of which those
even who were its instruments rarely
had the slightest conception. St. Louis
rose still further above his age. He
pertained not more to the middle ages
by his faith than by his statesmanship
he pertains to our own times. No
king ever labored harder to evolve finun

its feudal envelope the civil i
life of France; no king e
more diligently to place ro]
footing of modem sovereij
to fashion it, as M. de <
observes, after the BiU
ty, rather than after fe
rainty.

M. de Oam6 is very rig
seeking in these two rare m<
and matured political pU
would have found it diflli
cover traces of such a plai
and pcrhi^ even the ha
own mind reuder him les
judge other heroes of the n
In the very pages he has
see, indeed, Suger ; I see,
Louis ; but I do not see en
middle age itself, of that a;
with its contradictions bxh
sistencies; and M. de Ob
to me to be too wise, too s
logical, and too much of
statesman, to paint it in its

I express here, I confess,
impression, not a judgmen
haps a profounder study oi
ments of the middle ages
me a different impression
own that when I seek the t
in modem writings, I rec€
pression quite different from
I receive when I attemp
them in their own monume
the modems, not only w
Came, but with writers wl
quaries rather than statesi
presented as characteristic
die ages profound politics
at least a certain power <
and calculation in those wl
but if I open the smallest <
discover nothing of the so
kings and these statesmen b(
warriors, rude captains, capi
devotion— capable also of az
and even of any falsehood, :
of any wise or consistent j
ously and steadily pursued*
it is merely the result of t
of the language, and the
so often apparent, which
formed idiom giveB to \

The Fmmden nf Frtnck Dnit^

201

' this age has (m me the effect
I of in^cy.

igue stammers, and its diction
s the peUois of our provinces
iongs of our nurses. In art
lot without a simplicity some-
Imirable, that awkwardness
stiffness which mark the first
sralk of children. Its public

mingled with puerile cere-
with a fantastic symbolism,
ia even indecent. Its fiButh
r no reason, as asks the mar
n ; but felt, saw, understood
he adolescent ; it carried into
imes a puerile superstition
ipaircd it, sometimes an ad-
simplicity which excludes the
jf the doctors, though not the
less of martyrs. It instituted
It of Fools and of Asses. Yet

the Crusades. It embraced
1 morality without hesitation
out an objection ; it embrac-
t forgot to practise it; while
g good, it practised evil with
^ of contradiction surpassing
i ordinary powers of human
it was a good Catholic, but

not to pillage the churches,
lission it refused in principle
ly — to the pope, the king, or
rain; and yet never did the
receive more frequent insults,
lad royalty such trouble to
df obeyed, never were quarrels

superior and inferior so fre-
s in the middle ages — those
sabmission and of insubordi-
In which the rules of the
y were better established and
nred than in any other. This
^n, this inconsistency, this
eptance of the law while it is

only in theory, and this easy
ness of it when it comes to
this subordination of the
ad this revolt of the heart.
It plainly that of boyhood?
f seldom refuses to accept
«1 truth that is taught him;
I not reject in theoiy even
dittioe which is exacted of
It, at a given moment, it cosU

him nothing to contradict that truth
in practice, and to fail in that obedi*
enoe; he denies never the law; he
unceasingly breaks it.

It is true, that when we rise to a cer-
tain general point of view, nothing ap-
pears better regulated than the medise-
val society. Regularity, far from being
defective, was in excess. A manifold
foresight multiplied the laws. The
church and the state, feudality and the
commons, sovereignty and suzerainty,
had each their codes, complicated and
provident as those of a society in
which right and interest are compli-
cated and run athwart each other.
Decretals, bulls, decisions of councils,
feudal assizes, royal charters and
commercial charters, laws and regu-
lations of all kinds, embarrass us by
their number much more than they
sadden us by their absence. And the
definitive result of the whole is a grand
and admirable effort of Christian wis-
dom to establish in this world the
reign of justice and peace. No right
is denied, no interest is sacrificed, no
power is without its limit, no liberty
without its defense. Relations of the
king to the subject, of the suzerain to
the vassal, of the master to the serf,
all are regulated there on the basis,
so often forgotten, of reciprocal rights
and duties. Never, perhaps, have the
conciliation of order and liberty, hiei^
archy and equaUty, the powers of the
chief and the rights of the inferior,
been conceived in so happy a manner.

I said conceived, not effected ; for if
we come to the fact, the rule fails to
be translated into reality, or, rather,
is so oflen broken that it may be said
not even to exist ; all relations become
violent ; master and serf, suzerain and
vassal, king and subject, whose mutual
relations were so well settled in law,
are in a continual struggle against
one another. That magnificent ^ifice
presented us in theory, with the pope
and the emperor at its summit, and in
which the lowest serf holds his place,
is in reality as unsubstantial as the
iiury castles seen in our dreams.

When I speak thus of the middk

2%« Ftmmden tf Fnneh Umkg.

ages, I speak only of the laj society ;
I do not speak of the cl<u8ter and the
ehurch. They judge very improperly
the middle ages who identify society in
them with the church. The church
was then, as now, pot of her age. She
struggled against it^ and was more or
kss sullied on the points on which she
came more directly in contact with the
world — that is, in the secular clerg\r,
and even the episcopacy, and more
completely herself only when the
cloister, the distance of places, and
the diversity of origin removed her
farthest from the feudal society —
that is to say, in the religious orders
and the papacy. I regard as a veri«
table chimera that dream, sometimes
entertained, of a Europe gentle and
submissive, obedient to the least word
of the papacy, and conducted peace-
ably by the staff of St. Peter— in the
ways of ignorance and barbarism, say
unbelieving historians — in the ways
of happiness and salvaition, say Oa-
tholic writers. Both delight in this
dream ; the former because they would
ruin the church by tlurowing upon her
the responsibility of the crimes and
vices of the middle ages ; the latter be-
cause they would restore those ages
by identifying them with the church.
But I ask them to tell me at what
time, during what year, what day, or
what hour only this general submission
existed? I ask them to tell me if
there was a single day, a single minute
which did not bring to the church her
combat, not merely against kings and
feudal lords, but against nations, and
not only on one point of Europe, but
on a thousand ? — if once only this
temporal jurisdiction of the papacy
over the world was exercised other-
wise than at the point of the sword—
the sword of steel, as well as the
sword of speech ?

This middle agi% this docile child,
this innocent lamb, which allows itself
to be led gently and blindly by the
shepherd's crook, I find nowhere; I
aee indeed a child, but a hard and
rebcllioQS child, who seldom bends,
mely except to threats, and who.

however humbly be may b
it no fault to straighten hi
mediately afler. Alas I thei
a people is not the infancy
The infant man has his
weakness, which permits hi
controlledv and in restraining
him. The infant people, fo
fortune, has all the passions a
material forces of the full-gn
and by the side of this f<
mfant, the papacy to me
different in everything, differ
supernatural life, which lif\s
the human condition, by the
of its intelligence, which el
above this youthful world,
traditions of the Italian d
which raises it above this ^
sunk in barbarism. It is div
midst of men, adult in the
children, Italian in the mids
Teutons, Roman in the roidsl
barbarians, civilian in the
these soldiers.

And by this, it seems to mi
fied, even if not otherwise, Xhs
part played by the papac;
middle ages. When it is c
by what right it pretended to
poral government of Europe,
unhesitatingly, by

*' The right that a •plrit vast and firm Ii
Has over the grots spirits of rulgar mi

or, at least, the right which
hsLS naturally over youth, scii
ignorance, reason over unreal
mature man, whom chance h
in the midst of indocile and i
children, has over them by
and reason alone a part, at
the rights of a fiOher and a
Only, with the father or teaeb
cal force supports this right
the papacy it was wanting, i
be supplied only by the sanci
character, the authority of i
and the intrepidity of its goi
This will be for ever its gl
glory of the church is fa
having reigned than in bavin
Tliat temporal dominion of
See was never ia thtt state d

Tkt Fihmden ^ Frmok Vk^.

SOS

Jar, acknowledged sovcr*
t was oolj a form of the
; warfare which the church
agaiDBt evil, — one of the

her never-ending combat,
he arms of her ceaseless

The church has fought
thout auxiliaries, or with

always ready to abandon
lerself wields not the sword
shy and is never sure that
do handle it in her name
m it against her ; sometimes
kings and menaced bj the
letimes aided by the people
d by kings, she has fought
without having, in reality,
human power than that of
rs, the sufferings, the exile,
ity, the humiliations, the
;r pontifi&. She has never

triumphed, bat she has
led. She has never com-
ted the lion she combated,
a been able to soften him.
ever been a peaceful and
lier in the midst of submis-
en, a pacific queen in the
devoted subjects; she has
r an unwearied combatant,
U> his word who said, '^I
I bring the world not peace,

moment must come when
comes a man. The struggle
(es front. The man is not
the child ; properly speak-
it wiser or more reasonable :
iply more order in his life,
3gical sequence in his cou-
rt of human respect induces
ly to maintain greater har-
een hi^ principles and his
ben he has a good theory,
^ner than the child to have
!tice ; and oflencr when his
ad, he concocts a bad theory
it. To use a well-known
"actises his good maxims or
r his bad practices, as the
>d in him and his conscience
r or weaker. This accord
f^ which is the characteristic,
) pietemiion, of the mature

man, makes alike his greatness and
bis littleness. The church, when
society is matured, has to combat
doctrines rather than passions, ideas
rather than vices. The middle ages
were, then, the infancy of Christian
nations ; should we say the sixteenth
century — ^the age of passion, of effer-
vescence, of revoltj of lapses — was the
age of youth ? Is the present age the
age of maturity or of decrepitude?
This, five hundred years hence, our
descendants may be able to determine.
It still remains to know whether the
childhood of a people, like the child-
hood of individuals, ought not to be
regretted rather than disdained, and
whether it does not charm us more by
the memory of its joys than it humil-
iates us by the memory of its weak-
nesses. If the childhood of the indi-
vidual is not capable of crimes, it is
not any more capable of great deeds ;
the childhood of a people, on tlie con-
trary, although it may have its gentle
and simple side, has also its heroic
and sublime side. It was so with the
child-people who passed the Red Sea,
or fought under the walls of Troy.
They are child-men for whom the Pen-
tateuch was written, and who inspired
the Iliad. They are child-men, our
ancestors, who reconquered the tomb
of Christ, who carried faith even to the
depths of China, and who with Joan
of Arc chased the English from France.
They were not souls free from all
blemish, cor hands never sullied ; very
often the brutality of their manners
repels us, and we ai-e borne, in seeing
them, like the tender souls in those
iron ages, to seek refuge in the shadow
of the cloister, in oi-der to find there,
at least, peace, delicacy of heart, dig*
nity of intelligence, and serenity of
souL But they were really of those
to whom much is forgiven, for thej
loved much. Among their contradio-
tions they had this grand and noble
contradiction-^ that of having com-
mitted great faults, and yet preserving
the love of Grod ; of being soiled with
vice, and yet not abandoned to it ; of
having reuKwed far from the Lor^

204

The Fwmden nf Frmdi Jhi^

bat having neyer despaired of his
mercy ; of being very bard and very
cruel, and yet preserving a loving fibre
in their hearts, and tears in their eyes.
After all, if these men were children,
they were the children of whom it is
said, ^Of such is the kingdom of
heaven." If the middle ages had
vices, they had also faith : the world
in ripening has lost the faith, and re-
tained the vices.

Here is what, as it seems to me,
may be said of the middle ages, af-
ter what M. de Cam6 has said, and
by the side of what he has said. It
may not be without some advantage
to place this very different view by
the side of the political view, which he
has so well developed. I repeat it,
that considering only the two types of
Suger and St. Louis, he comprehends
them, for they come within his sphere ;
he has, perhaps, not so well compre-
hended the medium in which they
lived, or perhaps he partially forgets
it

Wo must now follow France and
Europe in that more manly, or senile,
epoch of their life, which M. de Came
after having given us sketches of Du
Guesclin and Joan of Arc, personifies
in Louis XIn Henry IV., Cardinal
Richelieu, and Mazarin. These are al-
ready times which touch very closely
our own. The work of Henry IV., of
Richelieu, Mazarin, and Louis XIV.,
has crumbled almost under our own
eyes, and in many respects their spirit
is still living in our midst. The proof
is in the fact that it is still the object
of attack, Richelieu especially. Louis
XIV. is discussed with all the vehe-
mence of a contemporary controversy.
This indeed is not the case with M. de
Camd. There is not, perhaps, in his
book an appreciation more calm, more
dignified, more grave than that of
the policy of the great cardinal

He has justified this policy. He
flhows with an evidence that seems >to
me incontestable, that, setting aside the
severity of certain acts, setting aside
the last months of a premature old
agei when weariness of power began

to obscure his lofly intellect, Ri
could have done hardly otherwi
he did. The nobility, it must 1
a little in all times, and very m
a century, had yielded to a dej
spirit of faction. Whether it di
like the Calvinistic gentlemen
sixteenth century, of a resurrec
feudalism ; whether in its eye
those of the Duke of Rohan, i
signed the plan of an aristocr
public ; or whether, as more fre
happens, all its ambitions wei
vidual, and that the alliances it
were only the coalitions of diss
pretensions, always is it certain
was in an eminent degree incap
a serious and well-defined poli
could not even be national, i
fourscore years there was not \
of the party who did not s€
support in England or in Spa
who did not treat in the begini
his revolt with foreigners, as he
ed at its close on treating w
king. The commonalty , though
national, had not a whit more (i
the necessary conditions of i
political action. The pariiam
contestably formed the head
Third Estate : it was the most di
post, the highest placed, the g
and the most capable of affiur
yet the parliaments interfered in
only with the littlenesses and o
of children, the conceit of yooi
or the timidity of old men ; bj
submissive and rebellious, idola
absolute power, and rebels to
government; rash and timid, re
and begging pardon.

The caidinal has been aim
ways reproached for having est
ed royalty without a basis; b
basis, where was he to find it ?
it ever in his power to crei
Could he found a political ariati
respecting the laws, and protect
people, where there was only a
lent^ unpopular, and unatalera
nobility? Could he erect oq ]
soil a House of CommooSt ao
at once with the spirit of legal
eoce and of coostitatioiial nai

The Fmtnden of I\renek IM^.

805

irhen it did not exist even in
and where there were only
adj to revolt, as was proved
*, of the League, and readj to
d even to worship power, as
ed under Henry IV., but
»pable of resisting without
At least, it will not be said
hazards, and without taking
It of these facts, the cardinal
ve inaugurated in France
like the charter of 1814,or
BdO, which would be very
i reproaching Hannibal for
^npowder, and Christopher
for not using steam !
tu felt that all force, that
Qciple of peace, grandeur,
was at the time in royalty,
'as in the sphere of things
r imaginary, the only regu-
'en the only popular power,
it there were only resist-
ither attacks, more or less in-*
t and factious. The liberties
[die ages, such as they had
d app<;ar only as turbulent
ular liberties, incompatible
order and that regularity
e a necessity for the genius
dinal and his age. Riche-
3red absolute that power
ne could be a protection,
>thers would be only sources
In doing this he abolished
)S, for there were then no
I the modem sense of the
i had little else than privi-
ippress, and absolute mon-
tiferred more privileges
estroyed. We had only
Ations to quell, and mis-
punish. That, in this
his unteropered severity
even to cruelty, sometimes
id almost always useless,
m^ does not deny, and I
even to a greater extent,
lan he would approve ; but
been the triumph of the
rather of the contradictory
What monarchy — national,
lal, and legal-^could have
irom the victory of those

great lords, leagued together, and con-
stantly intriguing against the govern
ment ever suice the death of Henry
IV.; sometimes open rebels, some-
times submissive; ever uniting, or
separating, allying themselves at the
the exigency of the moment ; enemies
to their friends of yesterday, faithful
to-day with the factious of the morrow,
Protestants with Catholics, Catholics
with Huguenots, Frenchmen with
Spain 1 What a magnificent bill of
rights the Duchess de Chevereuse
would have drawn up for Louis XTIL
to sign I

Richelieu did the only thing which
in his time was possible, and that is
the justification of the political order
which he founded. But his work was
not complete, and was not completed,
I dare add. solely because it was san-
guinary. The blood shed, as M. de
Came well says, was not so abundant
as is commonly believed ; twenty-six
men in all perished on the scaffold.
How many politicians have the reputa-
tion of great benignity, who have put
to death a much larger number I Bat
on more than one occasion Richelieu's
proceedings were odious, his cmelty
refined, his vengeance useless. It
belonged to a man of quite another
nature to finish the work which he,
with less violence, might have accom-
plished. The cardinal, when he died,
lefl feudal opposition humbled, but
Uving. The bl(X)d of Montmorency
had implanted still more hate than
fear. All the uneasy and restless
forces, which, with no purpose, or only
that of personal satisfaction, agitated
France for nearly a century, crashed
by the hand of the cardinal, drew
themselves up anew when he was no
longer there, and made themselves im-
mediately felt and feared, under the
reign of a child, the regency of a
Spanish woman, and the ministry of
an Italian. The work, then, was not
complete, and the last germ of that
aristocratic faction had not been ex-
tinguished on the scaffold of Qnq-
Mars.

M. de Oam^y wbo ovenates Biohe*

206

Tie IhuBdan of H^ndk Vnify.

lieu, greatly underrates Maxarin. Cer-
tainly, the man had less grandeur, and
was more sallied; there were defects
in his genius, and undeniably dark
shades in his character ; his morality
was certainly of a low order, but his
intellectual power was something mar-
vellous. I am astonished to see that
foreigner, that adventurer, that man
who was never popular, that minister
with greedy and grasping instincts,
triumphing over enemies which the
great cardinal had not been able to
subdue, surviving the spirit of faction
that hud survived Richelieu,— to see
him accomplish the work which Riche-
lieu had not been able to aeeomplish
by violence; and accomplishing it
without having to reproach himself
with erecting a single scaffold. This
Italian, so furiously decried, who on
re entering Paris, after his victory, had
not a word of anger to utter, nor a
vengeance to inflict on any one ; who
re-established in their seats the magis-
trates of Parliament who had set a
price on his head; who, vilified to
satiety by the men of letters, tran-
quilly, and without ostentation, restored
to them their pensions ; who granted to
the grandees of the kingdom — who
were his enemies — nearly all they
had asked, except their independence ;
this man, in all this, may indeed have
been more able than generous, but I
much like that kind of ability, and re-
gard it as worth imitating. And what
is curious, is that, from that minister,
so many times dishonored, from that
peace iu which the factious were so well
treated, from that struggle in which
royalty was often so hard pressed,
and in which it was so often forced to
give way, royalty itself came forth
stronger, more absolute, more venera-
ted, more adored, than it was left by
the lofty struggle maintained by Car-
dinal Richelieu, and in which his vic-
tories were ratified by the liaugman.

It is in ihis way that monarchy was
established in France ; and, be it said
in passing, without recurring to the
necessity and legitimacy of this work,
UluM produced, in spite of its manj im-

perfections and excesses, the m
roal epoch in our history since
St Louis. This epoch had on
duration, and it is 8ometim€
that what is called the ancient
was only a period of transit
grant it In this passing worl
century is there that ia not a
of transition? When is it I
nations can stop, pitch their to
say,. ** It is good to be here?'
member still huw in my yo
defunct Saint-Simonian school
perhaps, is not so defunct as
posed, divided the history of tl
into critical periods and orgc
riods; but as for its oi^anic
they could not tell where to fin
It is the same with us all. I
deed, in history, times of passi
not the time of sojourn ; and
not any century in which it m
be said with as much trutli at
•own, "We are in the mon
transition." But if ever th<
really an organic epoch, it was
which we speak. If any ag
really pass for a normal age,
deed for the perfection of its
but for the plenitude of its prii
would certainly be the age o
XIV. That was essentially,
and in evil, in greatness and i
ness, in its good deeds and in
deeds, in its legitimate honor
its idolatrous apotheosis, the
royalty.

On many sides, certainly, \
is open to attack : yet neither i
human institutions are to be
after an absolute type. The
must miserably fail, if so judg<
judgments of human things s
tive. When we place a life,
a rule, any institution whatevei
side of the ideal type which
agination forms to itself, nothi
be said ; that life is stained, the
is wretched, that regime is odi<
institution is detestable; bu
compare it with that which h;
before, after, or contemporary
or even that which would ha
htBmaolj possible to pat in ii

The Founden of lireneh Unity.

207

oar jod^ent la more indulgent, be-

eaose less absolute. It is our gloiy,

bat tlso our error, to bear in ourselves

a certaia passion for the beautiful and

the good, which can find no natisfac-

tioo io this worid ; to form to ourselves

inereiything, an ideal tjpe superior to

til haman power to realise ; to have in

u the measure of heaven, which we

ipplv to the things of earth. It is

veij clear that Lonis XIV. was onlj a

poor knight, Bossuet only a common-

pisee writer. Homer a street-singer,

Eaphael a dauber by the side of the

king, the orator, the poet, the pamter,

of which we dream in our imagina^

tion.

That rtgirM^ inaugurated by Riche-
liea, confirmed by Mazarin, and glori-
fed by Louis XIV., had, doubtless, its
baseness as every other, but not more
ifaan others. It had its cruelties^ and
they were oflcn inexcusable ; it had a
greater and more fundamental wrong
itili, that of pushing power to excess,
and exag«rerating its rights, as well as
deifying the person of the sovereign.
Homan powers have all a limit, how*
ever absolute they may cUiim to be ;
■nd whether collected in a single
hand, or dispersed among many-^
whether they fure vested in the people,
in an assembly, or in one man alone,
the sphero of their action is no greater.
Power has its limit in right, and this
Binit cannot be passed 'without guilt ;
it has its limit in fact, and against that
it cannot dash its head without break-
ing it.

This was its fault, and it was cruelly
expiated. We say, however, that the
nooarchy of Louis XIV. perished less
^ his fault than by that of his succesa-
9, Louis XV. inherited a royalty in
fa plenitude, surrounded by the pro-
faond respect of the nation. Louis
XlV. had died unpopular, but he lefl
the throne popular. The public ca-
hmities were charged to the man, not to
the monarchy. I know not in ail his-
tory a king more beloved, mora ven-
enued, more adored as king and inde-
pendently of his personal qualities,
than waa Louis XV. A child at first,

then a young man, without other per.
Bonal merit than that of leaving Cardi-
nal de Fleury to govern, Louis XV.,
during twenty years, gathered in peace
the fruits of royalty. More humane
than Louis XIV. ; as selfish indeed,
but selfish in another manner; not
taking like him his royalty in earnest,
and instead of accepting it as a dignity
almost divine, regarding it as a private
estate he luul jx right to enjoy without
being under the slightest obligation to
look after its manag(*ment, Louis XV.
took pleasure in squandering the trea-
sures of popular rospcet and affection
which his predecessor had bequeathed
him. France persisted in respecting
his royalty as long as she could. Nei-
ther the scandals of the Regency, less
public than they have become for pos*
terity, nor the succession of court in-
fiuences, not yet sunk to the baseness
of the later years, though beginning to
approach it ; nor the indolence and the
corruption of that prince who hardly
ever opened a letter on business, hard-
ly ever spoke in council, and hardly
ever went to the army ; nor that ego-
tism of the mnn crudely [jaradcd in the
place of the egotism of the king pro-
fessed by Louis XIV. as a religion —
nothing of all this disgusted the coun-
try, so marvellously hud France been
imbued with the love and worship of
royalty by Richelieu, Mazarin, and
Louis XIV. !

The corruption of ideas was slowly
effected. The <Mghteenth century did
not begin in 1700 nor in 1715, it was
only beginning in 17;>0. The first ir-
religious book which gave much scan-
dal was that of Toussaint in 1748. Up
to that time Voltaire had restricted
himself to some timid allusions against
priests mingled with many fiattericsof
the court ; the Pucelle was written but
not published. Twenty-eight years
afler the death of Louis XIV., at the
time of the illness of Metz, was still
sieen a thing unique perhaps — a whole
country, not only the nobility and the
court, but the citizens, the people, all
those who were most disinterested in
regard to royal favors, were seen pray-

208

The Founders of li^enek DkUy.

ing with a tenderness trulj filial that
God would leave to them a king who
had reigned for twenty-eight years
without haying done anything, and
wresting from Providence, so to speak,
by the force of supplications, a life steep-
ed in debauchery. This great and
sincere testimonial of monarchical en-
thusiasm, which remained so deeply
rooted in the memory of our fathers,
was given, I say not to the worst, but
certainly to the least meritorious of all
oar monarchs.

It is necessary, then, to render to
our country this justice, that, if it came
at length to despise power, it was be-
cause in spite of itself it was driven to
it by power itself. It needed that
this so solemn mark of filial devotion
should be returned by continued indo-
lence and comiption. It needed more
than thirty year^ of the cynical work-
ings of this royalty to erase fix)m the
heart in which it was so deeply rooted,
the taste and the worship of royalty.
They who, in seeking the semi-metaphy-
sical, semi-political causes for the ftill
of the monarchy of Louis XIV., think
they find the principle of its ruin in the
manner of its constitution, may, in
certain respects, be right, but they
should tell us how it could have been
constituted differently. However, they
seem to mo to count for too little the
abuses so fiagrant and so prolonged,
whioli wore made of it.

Neither am I among those who ac-
cuse the Fnmce of the old regime of
servility. Its love for royalty may
luive l)oen excessive, but it was, at
least, sinwre ; and if sincere it was rot
servile. We miiy be guilty of idola-
try towanls those we love, but we can
bo guilty of servility only towards those
we lovt' not. lioyalty, I admit, was
regaixloil as a demi-^rod, but they who
really worship tho lalse god do it in
goivl fiiiih. Dur taihcrs were, perhaps,
fanatics, but they were not slaves.
The gn^at KnjiUsh lords who, in the
eightoenth ivntur}', traversed France
in a past ohaiso, in onlor to attend the
court at Vonuiillos, and to pass several
weeks in Parts, doubtless judged the

country to be inhabited only
cowardly slaves of an Asiatic <
— ^they found no House of Comn
speaker nor usher with the bla
In the same way, Sterne, seeii
play a man who annoyed his ne
and whom the guard ordered ti
was confounded by the nrbitrs
ceeding, and could not compreh<
the citizen did not maintain by
the right to disturb the perfoi
It was a country judged on the
by the habits of mind of nnoth<
try. About the same time,
Englishman,* who did not joun
post-chaise, who went on foot f
lage to village^ playing the flutf
peasantry, holding disputation;
monasteries, and thus paying h
oning, judged France a littli
ently. He came very near, (
give him, envying it, and prefi
to his own country ! He met !
miserable slaves, but happy me
fied with themselves, and satis!
all the world. The current m
this country, according to him,
silver ; wa.s not the material fi
the government ; was not, or,
vras not only, pension and place
a yain money, no doubt, like all
riches, but a money, at least, m
cate and more noble. ** Socie
finds Its life in honor. Prais<
by merit, or obtained by an in
worth, is the money which pafl
rent from hand to hand, an
noble commerce passes from tl
to the camp and the cottage."
which for the others was the
of servitude, was for him the
of honor.

In reality it is hardly for i
ashamed d the servitude of <
fathers. It is true, more mati
they, we no longer either wo)
respect authority ; but we coi
fault to beg iu favors. W
ai Dund the altar, though we n
believe in the god. Every re
has shown us the ante-cham

• We BMd kvdly tcU oar mdan thai
referred to bert «m
-{K»L CL W.J

The Founden of FrenA Unity.

1 tnrn bj a clond of conquerors,
Hiists, or congervatists, mon-
)r republicans, all men of pro-
Kiviction, of a well-tried self-
a liberalism true as steel, and
lendence as firm as iron, but
ertheless come to beg Iheb- bit
budget. Since we caRe into
i, four times, at least, have we
, hideous quarry to which (we
ider all justice to our equalita-
U classes, high or low, rich or
ered or unlettered, have flock-
a harmony truly democratic,
no longer conceive of a public
rhich is not paid for, a state
which is not an income, a posi-
ch has not its money value.
I the right, in good faith, to be
of the times when they said
i but charges^ because the pub-
« was considered not a posi-
duty ? Have we the right to
'en that court and that finance
ine, stained, I grant, with cu-
d adulation, but not otherwise
all times, and are still the
lat approach power ? Have
ight, above all, to attack the
&sX society much less greedy
rors of power, much more in-
it of it than we are ourselves,
geoisie who loved so much its
1 whom it hod nothing to ex-
ept the suppression of a fourth
renue? Those magistrates
s their last penny for the right
t five o'clock in the morning,
the forenoon in the audience,
day the lowest deputy finds
)oorly paid by two thousand
' rising at ten o'clock ? That
1 nobility, poor, obscure, dis-
rho had all the charges of
7 without its benefits, and
tmed themselves but too hap-
after twenty years of service
here they lett their patrimony
len an arm, a leg, their bro-
eoosins, they obtained from
J of the king their discharge,
Mion to retire to their homes
roes of St. Louis, and the bre-
jadieF-Greneial ; crippled, im-

VOL. IT- 14

poverished, but endeavoring, if possi*
ble, to ^ preserve a fortune sufficient to
enable their children to replace them" ?
We, citizens and freemen, do we even
for much money, what those servile
beings did for a little honor ?

I have passed here a little beyond the
work of M. de Gam6, who stops with
Mazarin. He will pardon me, even
thank me, for not permitting myself to
go farther still, and to broach the hack-
neyed subject of 1789. I have else-
where had occasion to set forth my
views on that subject, by the side of
M. de Carn6's, happy to agree
with him in many respects, though
more severe, perhaps, in my judg-
ment of that revolutionary move-
ment than he is. The tendency of
minds toward reforms might have
been legitimate, but the way taken to
effect them was false, and in my eyes
infected with evil from the first. In
fact, the groundwork of French unity,
which M. de Camo represents for us
with so much love, what has been its
use, if, after the labor of so many cen-
turies, it could bo attained only by a
national convulsion, the most violent,
perhaps, which has figured in history ?
Civil equality, unity of territory, reform
in legislation, were they not already
sufficiently prepared by St. Louis,
Charles YU., Louis XL, Richelieu, and
Louis XIV., and was it necessary that
they should be purchased by the revolt
of the jeu de paume^ by the blood of
Versailles, and by the crimes of the
reign of Terror ? "Were our country-
men not criminal, at that epoch, in re-
pulsing a past in which they might, on
the contrary, have found a firmer sup-
port for the reforms needed ?

Be that as it may, I cannot but thank
M. de Came, in the name of all those
who still read, for the work which he
acliieved in 1848, and for the return
which he has just made to his former
studies. Whoever we may be, and what- •
ever may be the present, it is not neces-
sary that it should absorb us. As
the spectacle of the present age serves
to explain past ages, so should a retam
to the past oool and calm in our minds

210

My Tean.

the agitation of the present Of this
freedom from contemporaneous re-
flection, M. de Cam^ has given us
a noble example. On two or three
points, at most, the statesman of our
times is a little too perceptible. I much
doubt, for instance, if in the sixteenth
century, the Balafre could have found-
ed in France a dynasty and a citizen
royalty like that of Louis Philippe.
Still it might have been had the Bala-
M been a cadet of the Capetian family,
and if the dynasty of the Yalois had
been for fortyyears shaken by two
revolutions. TVbat strikes me, on the
contrary, in the history of the League,
and what appears to me one of the
greatest proofs of the spirit of nation-
ality and of loyalty which then reigned
in the commonalty, is the repugnance
which they always manifested to ac-
cepting a foreign dynasty, the timid
and reluctant manner with* which the
proposition was made, and the unpop-
ularity with which it was received.
At the time of the League, the nation
wished two things which then seemed
irreconcilable — Catholic royalty and
French loyalty ; it wished, so to speak,
an impossibility, but it willed it with
decision and perseverance, and that im-
possibility it obtained.

But, save these slight traces of the
man of the present, M. de Cam6 has
been able, with rare facility, to iden-
tify himself with past ages; he has
known how to take from erudition what
was necessary to enlighten his politi-

cal point of view, without suff
absorb him. He has been
able in surveying all these
subjects to identify himself
with each of them. Withou
ing details and without loe
self in^them, without disd.
speak to the imagination, an<
suffering himself to be carr
by the fascinations of the pic
without abandoning himself U
theories, and without despoilii
of them, he has in turn as iul
his Abbot Suger, his St. I
Du Guesclin, and each one of 1
as if he had never studied
else. He makes himself n
each one of these subjects in I:
but with a sagacity worth n
time, and with a quick perc
the dominant idea which oflei
the simple erudite. He has i
what is called a philosophica
a task become facile and comn
and he has not made wiiat is i
easy, purely contemporary |
propas of the past ; he has nc
history, if by history we an
the detailed recital of events
has known how to keep cons
his disposition the philosophl
which illuminates history, the
sense which helps to judge it,
knowledge of facts which is iti
tion. He has not made a his
he has made a luminous sumn
given us a necessary completn
the theories of French histoiy

MY TEARS.

Ah me I how many precious tears for naught Tve wept ;

And thus my soul did cheat.
TVould If like Magdalene, had treasured them, and kept

Their wealth for Jesus' feet.

Legend of Count JuKan and hi* Family,

211

lEGEND OP COUNT JULIAN AND fflS FAMILY.

BY WASHIKaTON IRVINO.

T and yarious are the accounts
a ancient chronicles of tbe for-
r Coant Julian and his family^
inj are the traditions on the
still extant among the popu-
Spain, and perpetuated in those
18 ballads sung by peasants
leteers, which spread a singu-
rm over the whole of this ro-
land.

rho has travelled in Spain in
3 way in which the country

be travelled — sojourning in
»le provinces, rambling among
ged defiles and secluded val-

' its mountains, and making
fiuniliar with the people in
t-of-the-way hamlets and rare-
ked neighborhoods — will re-
• many a group of travellers
feteers, gathered of an evening
the door or the spacious hearth
ont^n venta, wrapped in their
kaks, and listening with grave
ofound attention to the long
ballad of some rustic trouba-
ther recited with the true are
and modulated cadences of

1 elocution, or chanted to the
of a guitar. In this way he

ivc heard the doleful end of
ulian and his family recounted
ionary rhymes, that have been
down from generation to gen-
The particulars, however, of
jwing wild legend are chiefly
1 from the writings of the
Moor Basis; how far they
safely taken as hLstoric facts it
Msible now to ascertain; we
ntent ourselves, therefore, with
QBwering to the exactions of
nstioe.
^efc ereEythini^ had prm^red

with Count Julian. He had gratified
his vengeance; he had been success-
ful in his treason, and had acquired
countless riches from the ruin of his
country. But it is not outward suc-
cess that constitutes prosperity. The
tree flourishes with fruit and foliage
while blasted and .withering at the
heart. Wherever he went. Count
Julian read hatred in every eye. The
Christians cursed him as the cause of
all their woe; the Moslems despised
and distrusted him as a traitor. Men
whispered together as he approached,
and then turned away in scorn ; and
mothers snatched away their children
with horror if he offered to caress
them. He withered under the exe-
cration of his fellow-men, and last, and
worst of all, he began to loathe him-
self. He tried in vain to persuade
himself that he had but taken a justi-
fiable vengeance ; he felt that no per-
sonal wrong can justify the crime of
treason to one's country.

For a time he sought in luxurious
indulgence to soothe or forget the
miseries of the mind. He assembled
round him every pleasure and gratifi-
cation that boundless wealth could
purchase, but all in vain. He had
no relish for the dainties of his board ;
music had no charm wherewith to lull
his soul, and remorse drove slumber
from his pillow. He sent to Ceuta for
his wife Frandina, his daughter Flo-
rinda, and )iis youthful son Alarbot ;
hoping in the bosom of his family
to find that sympathy and kindness
which he could no longer meet with
in the world. Their presence, how-
ever, brought him no aHeviation.
Florinda, the daughter of hts heart,
for whose sake he had ondertaken thiji

212

Loffmd of ChutU JkUan and hi$ Famify.

signal vengeance, was sinking a vic-
tim to its effects. Wherever she went,
she found herself a byword of shame
and reproach. The outrage she had
suffered was imputed to her as wan-
tonness, and her calamity was mag-
nified into a crime. The Christians
never mentioned her name witliout a
curse, and the Moslems, the gainers
by^her misfortune, spake of her only
by the appellation of Cava, the vilest
epithet they could apply to woman.

But the opprobrium of the world
was nothing to the upbraiding of her
own heart. She chained herself with
all the miseries of these dievastrous
wars — the deaths of so many gallant
cavaliers, the conquest and perdition
of her country. The angubh df her
mind preyed upon the beauty of her
person. Her eye, once soft and ten-
der in its expression, became wild and
haggard; her cheek lost its bloom
and became hollow and pallid, and at
times there was desperation in her
words. When her father sought to
embrace her she withdrew with shud-
dering from his arms, for she thought
of his treason and the ruin it had
brought upon Spain. Her wretched-
ness increased after her return to her
native country, until it rose to a de-
gree of frenzy. One day when she
was walking with her parents in the
grtrden of their palace, she entered a
tower, and, having barred the door,
ascended to the Hbattlements. From
thence she called to them in piercing
accents, expressive of her insupporta-
ble anguish and desperate determina-
tion. *'Let this city," said she, "be
henceforth called Malacca, in memo-
rial of the most wretched of women,
who therein put an end to her dajs."
So saying, she threw herself headlong
from the tower, and was dashed to
pieces. The city, adds the ancient
chronicler, received the name thus
given it, though afterward softened
to Malaga, which it still retains in
memory of the tragical end of Flo-
rinda.

The Countess Frandina abandoned
thiB Bceae of woci and returned to

Ceuta, accompanied by her
She took with her the remi
unfortunate daughter, and
honorable sepulture in a ]
of the chapel belonging to l
Count Julian departed for C
where he remiuned plungei
at this doleful event.

About this time the cr
man, having destroyed the
Muza, had sent an Aral
named Alahor, to succeed
as emir or governor of Sp
new emir was of a cruel
cious nature, and commence
with a stem severity that i
those under his command
with regret to the easy rule
lasis. He regarded with
distrust the renegade Chris
had aided in the conquest
bore arms in the service of
lems; but his deepest susp
upon Count Julian. " He i
traitor to his own countryo
he ; " how can we be sure th
not prove traitor to us ?" ^

A sudden insurrection of i
tians who had taken refti;
Asturian mountains, quick
suspicions, and inspired 1
fears of some dangerous c
against his power. In the
his anxiety, he bethought I
Arabian sage named Yuza,
accompanied him from Afric
son of science was withered
and looked as if he had out
usual term of mortal life,
course of his studies and trat
East, he had collected the k
and expecience of agjes ; beii
in astrology, and, it is said,
mancy, and possessing the m
gift of prophecy or divinat
this expounder of mysterici
applied to learn whether ai
treason menaced his safety.

The astrologer listened i
attentiQ|i and overwhelming
all the surmises and suspidoi
emir, then shut himself up t
his books and commune w
supernatural intelligences ra

Lf^emd of Oouni JvMan and hi$ Family,

218

lom. At an appointed hour
Bought him in his celL It
with the smoke of perfumes ;
nd circles and varioufLd^
re described upon tiie if^*
strologer was pbring4v3a
Aichroent, covered with-wt-
aracters. He received Alar
a gkMmy and sinister as-
ending to have discovered
rtents m the heavens, and
id strange dreams and mys-

lir,*' said he, " be on your
sason is around you and in
; your life is in peril. Be-
omit Julian and his family."
rh," said the emir. " They
ie ! Parents and children —
ie!"

thwith sent a summons to
ian to attend him in Cordo-
messenger found him plung-
iction for the recent death
ighter. The count excused
1 account of this misfortune,
^ng the commands of the
rson, but sent several of his
His hesitation, and the
ice of his having sent his
ross the straits to Africa,
tmed by the jealous mind of
Dto proofs of guilt. He no
lonbted his being concerned
nt insurrections, and that he
lis £unily away, preparatory
empt, by force of arms, to
te Moslem domination. In
3 put to death Siseburto and

nephews of Bishop Oppas
jf the former king, Witiza,

them of taking part in the
Thus did they expiate their
to their country in the fatal
roadalete.

next hastened to Cartha-
ixe upon Count Julian. So
e his movements that the

barely time to es(^pe with
'alters, with whon^pe took
Jie strong castle of Marcuel-

the mountuns of Aragon.

enraged to be disappointed
f I embaiked at Carthagena

and crossed the straits to Ceuta, to
make captives of the Countess Fran-
dina and her son.

The old chronicle from which we
take this part of our legend, presents
a gloomy picture of the countess in
the stem fortress to which she had
fled for refuge — a picture heightened
by supernatural horrors. These lat-
ter the sagacious reader will admit or
reject according to the measure of his
faith and judgment ; always remem-
bering that in dark and eventful times,
like tliose in question, involving the
destinies of nations, the downfall of
kingdoms, and the crimes of nilers
and mighty men, the hand of fate is
sometimes strangely visible, and con-
founds the wisdom of the worldly
wise, by intimations and portents
above the ordinary course of things.
With this proviso, we make no scruple
to follow the venerable chronicler in
his narration.

Now so it happened that the Coun-
tess Frandina was seated late at night
in her chamber in the citadel of Ceu-
ta, which stands on a lofty rock, over-
looking the sea. She was revolving
in gloomy thought the late disasters of
her family, wheA she heard a mourn-
ful noise like that of the sea-breeze
moaning about the castle walls. Rais-
ing her eyes, she beheld her brother,
the Bishop Oppas, at the entrance of
the chamber. She advanced to em-
brace him, but he forbade her with a
motion of his hand, and she observed
that he wiis ghastly pale, and that
his eyes glared as with lambent
flames.'

"Touch me not, sister," said he,
with a mournful voice, 'Mest thou be
consumed by the fire which rages
within me. Guard well thy son, for
blood-hounds are upon his track. His
innocence might have secured him the
protection of heaven, but our crimes
have involved him in our common
ruin." He ceased to speak and was
no longer to be seen. His coming
and going were alike without noise,
and the door of the chamber rmnained
fast bolted.

214

Legmd of Otnmi Mian and Am Famify.

Oa the following morning a mes-
senger arrived with tidings that the
Bbhop Oppas had been made prison-
er in battle bj the insurgent Chris-
tians of the Asturiasy and had died in
fetters in a tower of the mountains.
The same messenger brought word
that the Emir Alahor had put to death
several of the friends of Count Julian ;
had obliged him to flj for his life to a
castle in Aragon, and was embarking
with a formidable force for Geuta.

The Countess Frandina, as has al-
ready been shown, was of courageous
hearty and danger made her desperate.
There were fifty Moorish solders in
the garrison; she feared that they
would prove treacherous, and take
part with their countrymen. Sum-
moning her officers, therefore, she in-
formed them of their danger, and com-
manded them to put those Moors to
death. The guards sallied forth to
obey her orders. Thirty-five of the
Moors were in the great square,' un-
suspicious of any danger, when they
were severally singled out by their
executioners, and, at a concerted sig-
nal, killed on the spot. The remain-
ing fifteen took refuge in a tower.
They saw the armada of the emir at
a distance, and hoped to be able to
hold out until its arrival. The soldiers
of the countess saw it also, and made
extraordinary efforts to destroy these
internal enemies before they should be
attacked from without. They made
repeated attempts to storm the tower,
but were as often repulsed with severe
loss. They then undermined it, sup-
porting its foundations by stanchions
of wood. To these they set fire and
withdrew to a distance, keeping up a
constant shower of missiles to prevent
the Moors from sallying forth to ex-
tinguish the flames. The stanchions
were rapidly consumed, and when
they gave way the tower fell to the
ground. Some of the Moors were
crushed among the ruins ; others were
flung to a distance and dashed among
the rocks ; those who survived were
instantly put to the sword.

The fleet of the emir arrived at

Geuta about the hoar of vetpi
landed, bat found the gate
against him. The oonnteM
spoke to him from a tower^
■til at defiance. The emir
ately laid siege to the city,
suited the astrologer Yaxa, i
him that for seven days his tt
have the ascendant over tha
youth Alarbot, but after that
youth would be safe from hi
and would effect his ruin.

Alahor immediately ord<
city to be assailed on every c
at length carried it by ston
countess took refuge with hi
in the citadel, and made despi
fence ; but the walls were Ba{
mined, and she saw that all n
would soon be unavailing. ]
thoughts now were to com
child. <' Surely," said she, «
not think of seeking him ao
dead." She led him theref
the dark and dismal chapeL
art not aftraid to be alone in tl
ness, my child?" said she.

"No, mother," replied tl
'^darkness gives silence an<
She conducted him to the
Florinda. ^ Fearest thou tl
my child?*' "No, mother; i
can do no harm, and what i
fear from my sister ?"

The countess opened the k
" Listen, my son," said she.
are fierce and cruel people n
come hither to murder th6(
here in company with thy sii
be quiet as thou dost value tl
The boy, who was of a coun^
ture, did as he was bidden,
mained there all that day, an*
night, and the next day until I
hour.

In the mean time the wall
citadel were sapped, the troop
emir poured -in at the bread
great part of the garrison wi
the:iP|Mfi. The countess W]
prispnerand brought before t
She appeared in his preseno
haughty demeanor, as if she I
a qaeen receiving homage ; I

Legend of Count Julian and hit Family,

215

he demanded her son, she faltered and
tamed pale, and replied, ^ My son is
with the dead."

^ Countess," said the emir, *< I am
not to be deceived ; tell me where you
haYC concealed the boj, or tortures
shall wring from jou the secret."

« Emir,*' replied the countess, " may
the greatest torments be my portion,
both here and hereafter, if what I
speak be not the truth. My darling
diild lies buried with the dead."

The emir was confounded by the
solemnity of her words ; but the with-
ered astrologer Yuza, who stood by
his side regarding the countess from
beneath his bushed eyebrows, perceiv-
ed trouble in her countenance and
equivocation in her words. ^ Leave
diis matter to me," whispered he
to Alahor; ^I will produce the

He ordered strict search to be made
by the soldiery, and he obliged the
eoantess to be always present. When
they came to the chapel, her cheek
turned pale and her lip quivered.
'^This," said the subtile astrologer,
^ 18 the place of concealment V*

The search throughout the chapel,
however, was equally vain, and the
aoUiers were about to depart, when
Torn remarked a slight gleam of joy
in the eye of the countess. " We are
kanng our prey behind," thought he ;
'^flie countess is exulting."

He now called to mind the words of
her asseveration, that her child was
with the dead. Turning suddenly to
the soldiers he ordered them to search
the sepulchres, ^l^ you find him
■ot," said he, " drag forth the bones of
Alt wanton Cava, that they may be
hnt, and the ashes scattered to the
winds."

The soldiers searched among the
toohs and found that of Florinda part-
ly open. Within lay the boy in the
Kttid sleep of childhood, and one of
the soldiers took him genlly in his
urns to bear him to the emir.

When the countess beheld that her
child waa discovered, she rushed into
Ae praaenoe of Alahor, and foi^tting

all her pride, threw herself upon her
knees before him.

" Mercy ! mercy !" cried she in pierc-
ing accents, "mercy on my son — my
only child! O Emir! listen to a
mother's prayer and my lips sliall kiss
thy feet. As thou art merciful to
him so may the most high God have
mercy upon thee, and heap blessings
on thy head."

'' Bear that frantic woman hence,"
said the emir, ^^ but guard her welL"

The countess was dragged away by
the soldiery, without regard to her
struggles and her cries, and confined
in a dungeon of the citadel.

The child was now brought to the
emir. He had been awakened by the
tumult, but gazed fearlessly on the
stem countenances of the soldiers.
Had the heart of the emir been capa-
ble of pity, it would have been touch-
ed by the tender youth and innocent
beauty of the child ; but his heart
was as the nether millstoqe, and he
was bent upon the destruction of the
whole family of Julian. Galling to
him the astrologer, he gave the child
into his charge with a secret com-
mand. The withered son of the des-
ert took the boy by the hand and led
him up the winding staircase of a
tower. When tbey reached the sum-
mit, Yuza placed him on the battle-
ments.

" Cling not to me, my child " said
he ; " there is no danger." " Father,
I fear not," said the undaunted boy ;
" yet it is a wondrous heiglit !'*

The child looked around with de-
liglited eyes. The breeze blew his
curling locks from about his face, and
his cheek glowed at the boundless
prospect; for the tower was reared
upon that lofty promontory on which
Hercules founded one of his pillars.
The surges of the sea werc heard far
below, beating upon the rocks, the
sea-gull screamed and wheeled about
the foundations of the tower, and the
saila of lofty caraccas were as mere
specks on the bosom of the deep.

^ Dost thou know yonder land be-
yond the blue water?" said Yuza.

216

Legmid &f Ooma JM&n cmd kU Fonmfy.

« It is Spain," replied the boy ; « it
is the land of my father and my
mother."

^ Then stretch forth thy hands and
bless it, my child,'' said the astrol-
oger.

The boy let go his hold of the wall ;
and, as he stretched forth his hands,
the aged son of Ishmael, exerting all
the strength of his withered limbs,
snddenly poshed him over the battle-
ments. He fell headlong from the top
of that tall tower, and not a bone in
his tender frame but was crushed
upon the rocks beneath.

Alahor came to the foot of the wind-
ing stairs.

" Is the boy safe ?" cried he.

** He is safe," replied Yuza ; "come
and behold the truth with thine own
eyes."

Th^ emir ascended the tower and
looked oyer the battlements, and be-
held the body of the child, a shapeless
mass, on the rocks far below, and the
sea-gulls hovering about it; and he
gave orders that it should be thrown
into the sea, which was done.

On the following morning the coun-
tess was led forth from her dungeon
bto the public square. She knew of
the death of her child, and that her
own death was at hand, but she nei-
ther wept nor supplicated. Her hair
was dishevelled, her eyes wei*e hag-
gard with watching, and her cheek
was as the monumental stone ; but
there were the remains of command-
ing beauty in her countenance, and
the majesty of her presence awed
even the rabble into respect.

A multitude of Christian prisoners
were then brought forth, and Alahor
cried out : *' Behold the wife of Connt
Julian ! behold one of that traitorous
family which has brought ruin upon
yourselves and upon your country!"
And he ordered that they should stone
her to death. But the Christians drew
back with horror from the deed, and
said, "In the hand of God is ven-
geance ; let not her blood be upon our

heads.** Upon this the em:
with horrid imprecations that
of the captives refused shonl^
be stoned to death. So the <
der was executed, and the <
Frandina perished by the hani
countrymen. Having thus
plished his bai*barons errand,
embarked for Spain, and ord
citadel of Ceuta to be set on
crossed the straits at night
light of its towering flames.

The death of Count Julia
took place not long after, cli
tragic story of his family,
died remains involved in
Some assert that the cruel
pursued him to his retreat an
mountains, and, having tak
prisoner, beheaded him ; otl
the Moors confined him in a i
and put an end to his life wit)
ing torments ; while others afl
the tower of the castle of M
near Huesca, in Aragon, in i
took refuge, fell on him and
him to pieces. All agree tha
ter end was 'miserable in the
and his death violent. The
heaven, which had thus pure
to the grave, was extended to
place which hod given him
for we are told that the cas;
longer inhabited on account
strange and horrible noises
heard in it ; and that visions <
men are seen above it in
which are supposed to be the
spirits of the apostate Christ!
favored the cause of the traitc

In after4imes a stone i
was shown, outside of the c
the castle, as the tomb o
Julian ; but the traveller and
grim avoided it, or bodtowed i
malediction ; and the name <
has remained a byword and
in tlie land for the warning o
erations. Snch ever be the l(
who betrtys his country I

Here end the legends of
quest of Spain.

BeamU Smvpean BomU$,

817

RECENT EUROPEAN EVENTS.

HXK it is said that the church is
«iident of time and its events, and
nhsist and operate under all forms
remment, and in all stages of civ-
on, it is not meant that she is
srent to the revolution of states
mpires, or cares not how the
ia constituted, or the government
dstered. Subsisting and oper-
in society, though not holding
it, she cannot be indifferent to its
mtion, either for her sake or
n. It may be oonstituted more
ss in accordance with eternal
e, or absolute and unchanging
and therefore more or less favor-
3 her catholic mission, which is to
oee and sustain the reign of truth
ght in the state and the adminis-
1 as well as in the individual
I and wilL

r less does the independence of
nrch, or her non-dependence on
oUtical order and its variations,
that politics, as is but too often
led, are independent of the moral
r God, and therefore that states-
a?il magistrates, and rulers are
DO obligation to consult in their
rhat is right, just, or conformable
law of the Lord, but onlj what
10 them expedient, or for their
Mm interest* All sound politics
lied on principles derived from
gjy the great catholic or univer-
id invariable principles which
I man's relation to his Maker and
neighbor, and of which, while the
ii indeed in the temporal order
idministrator, the church is
ivinelj instituted guardian and
r. No Christian, no man who
» in God, can assert political
of the divine or spirit-

ual order, for that would be sim-
ply political atheism ; and if men some-
times do assert it without meaning to
deny the existence and authority of
God in the spiritual order, it is because
men can be and sometimes are illogi-
cal, and inconsistent with themselves.
Kings, kaisers, magistrates, are as
much bound to obey God, to be just,
to do right, as are private individuals,
and in their official no less than in their
private acts.

The first question to be asked in re-
lation to any political measure is. Is it
morally right ? The second. Are the
means chosen for carrying it out just ?
If not, it must not be adopted. But, and
this is important, it is the prerogative
of Grod to overrule the evil men do, and
to make it result in good. " Ye meant
it for evil, but God meant it for good."
Hence when things arc done and can-
not be recalled, though not before, we
may lawfully accept thcin, and labor
to turn them to the best possible ac-
count, without acquitting or approv-
ing them, or the motives and conduct of
the men who have been in the hands of
Providence the instruments of doing
them. Hence there are two points of
view from which political events may
be considered : the moral— 4he motives
and conduct of those who have brought
them about ; and the political — or the
bearing of the events themselves, re-
garded as facts accomplished and irre-
vocable, on the future welfare of so-
ciety.

If we judge the recent territorial
changes in Italy and Germany from the
moral point of view, we cannot acquit
them. The means by which the unity
of Italy has been ^ected under the
house of Savoy, and those by which

218

£,i€fMl JoiKmp01M £piWiSt

that of ("r^Tzn^riT hir l>ei?a p»!a«»l is
ih*: wav or' lyri.'i^ '■^•r-T:*»i under :h*
SKyjafr o: HoL«rrizo'.Irrn- i: •r*':n? to n:*
are whol'v irjdeiVr.-ibl*-. The trar oc
Fraric'r a'*'I Sariinia a^a'n*: A::s:ria ia
l'«.>9.:I'i*:a:.r-«:i'4r:or. :o Sariinia ol'ihe

subject to the Ho! v See. tie aby'JFrpTion
by foiT^; of arm-; of ::ie kin:!*iom of the
Two Sicilie--. anl trie s:Iil m:>re recent
war of Italy au'l Pru»Ia azain^t the
fiame fiOwer. re?ui:in2 in the matiia-
tioo and humiliation of the Austrian
empire, and j»f>isibly io depriving the
po[je of the n.'mainder of his domain,
are, I mu-st h«.t!d. in every sense
unjustifiable. They have been done
in violation of intemarional law. public
ri^ht, and are an oiiira^ upon every
man's innate *en=e of justice, ex-
cusable only on that most detestable
of all maxims — the end sanctifies the
mean.«.

But rezanled from the political point
of view, a:s fact* arromplished and ir-
revocable, perhaps ihey are not inde-
fensible, nay. not unlik*'ly under divine
Provide net? to prfjve of lastin<r benefit
to European 5.>rieiy. I cannot defend
the coup cTehifot' S'apoleon. Decemlier
2, 1851. but I l>elieve that the ele-
vation of Louis Naix)lcon to the French
throne has tunied nut for the benefit of
France and of Europe. I condemn
the means adopted to effect both Italian
and German unity, but I am not pre-
pared to say that each, in view of the
undeniable tendency of modem poli-
tics, was not in itself desirable, and de-
manded by the solid and permanent in-
terests of European society. Taken as
facts accomplished, as ])oint3 of de-
parture for the future, they may
have, perhaps already have had. an
important bearinp^ in putting an end to
the imcasincss under which all Euro-
pean society has labored since the
treaties of Vienna in 1815. and the so-
cial if: tic and revolutionary movements
which have, ever since the attempted
reconstruction of Europe after the fall
of Nopoleon, kept it in continual tur-
moil) and rendered all government ex-
cept bj sheer force impracticable.

Tiie tendency of European society
f:c- f :<ir or five centuries has been, on
iz* oce hand, toward civil and political
eqsalirr. and on the other, toward Ro-
man imperialism. European society
ha? rE-vohed against mediae; val feudal-
ism, alike against the feudal aristoc-
raoy and the ftrudal monarchy, and
sctugh: to revive the political system of
imperial Rome, to place all citirens on
the footing of an equality before the
law. with exclusive privileges for oone,
ani to base monarchy on the sovereign
will of the natioD. It would be locoi^
rex to say, as many both at home and
abroad have said, that European so-
ciety has been or is tcnduig to pure
and simple democracy, for such hai
not^)eeiL. and is not by any means die
fact ; but it has been and is tending to
the abolition of all fiolitical distioctioos
and privileges founded on birth or ^fep-
erty, and to render all persons with*
out rcfereoce to caste or class eligible
to all the offices of state, and to make
all offices charges or trusts, instead of
private propeny or estates. Under
feudalism all the great offices of the
state and many of the charges at oooit
were hereditary, and could Ih; claimed,
held, and exercised as rights, nnleu
furl ei ted by treason or misprisioa of
treason against the liege lord. L was
so in France down to the r^volntioD of
1789, and is still so in England in re-
lation to several charges at court, and
to the House of Peers. The feudal
crown is an estate, and transmisaiUe
in principle, and usually in facial any
other estate.

Since the fifteenth century thii fin*
dal system has been attacked, throogb-
out the greater part of Europe, witk
more or less success. It reoeivei
heavy blows from Louis XL . in
France, Ferdinand and Isabella io
Spain, Ilenry VII. in England, tod
Maximilian I. in Germany. Tbe
tendency in this direction was r^
sisted by the Protestant princes in
Germany, leagued against the empe-
ror, the Huguenot nobles and the
Fronde in France, and by the vUg
nobility in England, bcpcauao while it

Recent European Events,

219

strengthened the people as against
the crown, it eqnallj strengthened the
crown against the nohilitj. The Brit-
ish reformers to-daj, under the lead
of John Bright, are following out this
European tendency, and if successful,
will abolish the House of Peers, estab-
lish civil and political equality, but at
the same time will increase the power
of the crown, and establish Roman im-
perialism, which the Stuarts failed to
do, because they sought to retain and
strengthen the feudal monarchy while
they crushed the feudal aristocracy.

But for the king or emperor to rep-
resent the nation and govern by its
sovereign authority, it is necessary
that the nation should become a state,
or body politic, which it was not under
feadaUsm. Europe under feudalism
was divided among independent and
subordinate chiefs, but not into sov-
ereign independent nations. Tiiere
were estates but no states, and the
same proprietor might liold, and often
did hold, estates in different nations,
and in nations even remote from one
another, and neither power nor obedi-
ence depended on national bounda-
ries or national territory. There was
lojalty to the chief, but none to the
nation, or to the king or emperor as
representing the national majesty or
sovereignty. Hence the tendency to
Roman imperalism became also a ten-
dency to nationality. Both king and
people conspired together to bring
into national unity, and under the im-
perial authority of the crown, all the
fieft, whoever the suzerain or liege
M, and all the small principalities
that by territorial position, tradition,
langnage, the common origin, or insti-
totums of the inhabitants, belonged
itally to one and the same nation.

The first of the continental powers

toeflfect this national unity was France,

consisting of the former Gallic pro-

Tnices of the Roman empire, except

a portion of the Gallia Germana now

kid by Belgium, Holland, and the

Germanic governments on the led

hnk of the Rhine. The natural

brnndaries of France are those of the

ancient Kcltica of the Greeks, extend-
ing from the Alps to the Atlantic
ocean, and from the Mediterranean
sea to the English channel and the
Rhine. France has not yet recovered
and united the whole of her national
territory, and probably will never be
perfectly contented till she has done
iL But after centuries of struggle,
from Philip Augustus to Louis XIV.,
she efiected internally national unity
which gave her immense advantages
over Italy and Germany, which re-
mamed divided, and which at times
has given her even the hegemony of
Europe.

The defeat of the first Nai)oleon,
the restoration of the Bourbons, and
the treaties of Vienna in 1815, arrest-
ed, and were designed to arrest, this
tendency of modem European society
under all its aspects, and hence satis-
fied nobody. They prevented the free
development and play of the tendency
to national unity and independence,
re-established aristocracy, and restrain-
ed the tendency to equality, and reas-
serted monarchy €is an estate held by
the grace of God and inviolable and
indefeasible, instead of tha representa-
tive monarchy, which holds from the
nation, and is responsible to it. Those
treaties grouped peoj)lc together with-
out any regard to their tcmtorial re-
lations, natural affinities, traditions,
or interests, without the sUglitest
reference to the welfare of the dif-
ferent populations, and with sole
reference to the interests of sov-
ereigns, and the need felt of re-
stricting or guarding against the pow-
er of France. A blinder, a less phi-
losophical, or a more ignorant set of
statesmen than those who framed these
treaties, it is difficult to concuive. The
poor men took no note of the changes
which had been produced during four
or five hundred years of social elabo-
ration, and supposed that they were
still in full medueval feudalism, when
people and territory could bo trans-
ferred from one suzerain or one liege
lord to another, without oflfending any
political principle or any sentiment of

220

Recent European EvenU.

nationality. OF all legislators in the
world, read ion ists snddenlj yictorious,
and not yet wholly recovered from
their fright, are the worst, for they
act from passion, not reason or judg-
ment.

From the moment these treaties
were published a social and political
agitation began in nearly all tihe states
of Europe. Conspiracies were erery-
whcre, and the revolutionary spirit
threatened every state and empire, and
no government could stand save as
npheid by armed force. Bold at-
tempts at revolution were early made
in Naples and Spain, which were de-
feated only by foreign intervention.
Hardly a state was strong enough in
the affections of its people to main-
tain order without the repressive
weight of the Holy Alliance, invented
by Madame Knidener, and effected
by the Emperor Alexander and Prince
Mettemich. Austria dominated in
the Italian peninsula, France in the
Spanish, and Russia in Poland and
Gfermany ; Great Britain used all her
power and influence to prevent the
emancipation of the Christian popula-
tions of the East, and to uphold the
tottering empire of the Turks. The
Holy Father was at once protected
and oppressed by the allied powers,
especially by Austria; the people
everywhere became alienated from
both church and state, and serious-
minded men, not easily alarmed,
trembled with fear that European so-
ciety might be on the eve of a re-
turn to barbarism and oriental despot-
ism.

Matters grew worse and worse till
there came the explosions of 1830,
driving out of France the elder branch
of the Bourbons, detaching Belgium
from Holland, and causing the final
extinction of the old and once power-
ful kingdom of Poland, followed by
revolutions more or less successful in
Spain and Portugal. Force soon tri-
umphed for the moment, but still Eu-
rope, to use the figure so hackneyed at
the time, was a smouldering volcano,
till the fearful emptions of 1848 struck

well-nigh aghast the whole
world, and conservatives thot
the day for social order am
authority had passed away,
return. Anarchy seemed
France, the imperial familj
tria fled to Innspmck, and th
rians in revolt, forming a \ex
the rebellions citizens of Vi
the Italian revolution, brough
pire almost to its last gasp ;
of Prussia was imprisoned ii
ace by the mob, and nearly e
ty German prince was obliges
promise with the revolntioni
Italy was in commotion ; t
Father was forced to seek i
Gaota, and the infamous \
republic, with the filibuster (
as its general and hero, was
in the Eternal City. Such 1
the result of the repressive |
the Holy Alliance, when Loo
Icon was elected president
French republic.

It is true, in 1849 the r<
was suppressed, and power n
in its rights in Rome, Napl
cany, the Austrian dominions,
and the several German sta
everybody felt that it was oi
moment, for none of tho o
uneasiness or dissatisfaction '
moved. The whole of Eur<
covered over with secret i
working in the dark, beyc
reach of the most powerful ai
sighted governments, and tfa
danger every day of a new c
perhaps still more violent, am
impotent to settle European
on a solid and permanent foi
because the revolution was,
its destructive side, as little i
with its tendencies and aspir
the Holy Alliance itself

The cause of all this uneai
this universal agitation, was n
tyranny, despotism, or oppre
the governments, or in their c
of the welfare of the people <
ity to them ; for never in tl
history of Europe were the
ments of France, Italy, Qeim

£eceni JBarapean E&mU.

821

less despotic, less arbitrary, less
ill of the rights of person and
jT, less oppressive, indeed more
iDt, or more disposed to consult
are of the people — ^the French,
D, and Anstrian s}'Btem of uni-
popalar educaticm proves it— •
ring the period from 1815 to
nod never in so brief a period
much been done for the relief
ration of the poorer and more
OS classes. The only acts of
lent that were or could be com«

of were acts of repression,
ive or punitive, rendered ne-
by the chronic conspiracy, and
r justifiable, if the government
protect itself, or preserve its
Btence, and which, in fact, were
e arbitrary or oppressive than
I performed in this comitry
the late rebellion, by both the
government and the confed-
vemment, or than those prac-
' cenniries by the British gov-

in Ireland. Nor was it ow-
rely or chiefly to the native
ty of the human heart, to the
ce of restraint and insubordi-
fthe people, who were said to
unbounded license, and deter-
» submit to no regular author-
ividuals may love licence and
tfaority, but the people love
■e naturally disposed to obe-
nd are usually far more ready
it lo even grievous wrongs
iiake an effort to right them.
Ause in France was not that
ibons of either branch were
nwise rulers, but that they

too many feudal traditions,

the throne as a personal es-
, moreover, were forced upon
Hi by foreign bayonets, not

by the iree^ independent will
lation itself. Their govem-
wever able, enlightened, and
Botageous to France, was not
; and while submitting to it,

France that had grown up
39 could not feel herself an
lent nation. It is probable
!e it leaa freedom for French-

men in thought and speech under the
present regime than there was under
the Restoration or even the King of the
Barricades and his parliament; bat
it is national, accepted by the free wiU
of the nation, and, moreover, obliter-
ates all traces of the old feudal dis-
tinctions and privileges of caste or
class, and establishes, under the em-
peror, democratic equality. Individ-
uals may be disaffected, some regret-
ting lost privileges and distinctions,
and others wishing the democracy
without the emperor; but upon the
whole the great body of the pepple
are content^ with it, and any attempt
at a new revolution would prove a
miserable failure. The secret socie-
ties may still exist, but they are not
sustained by popular sympathy, and
are now comparatively powerless.
The socialistic theories and move-
ments, Saint Simonism, Fourierism,
Cabetism, and the like, fall into disre-
pute, not because suppressed by the
police, but because there is no longer
that general dissatisfaction with the
social order that exists which origi-
nated them, and because the empire is
in harmony with the tendencies of
modem European society.

In Italy the cause was neither
hatred of authority nor hostility to
the church or her supreme pontiff,
but the craving of the people, or the
influential and controlling part of
them, for national unity and inde-
pendence. In feudal times, when
France was parcelled out among feu-
datories, many of whom were more
powerful than the king, their nominal
suzerain ; when Spain was held in
great part by the Moors, and the
rest of her territory was divided into
three or four mutually independent
kingdoms ; when England was subject
to the great vassals of the crown,
rather XhsxL to the crown itself; when
Grermany was divided into some three
hundred principalities and free cities,
loosely united only under an elective
emperor, with little effective^ power,
and often a cause of divbion raUier •
than a bc»nd of onion between them;

ttt

B§tt t U MunpMH BMUdiBm

and when the pope, the most Italian
of ail the Italian sorereigns, was so-
semn of a lai^ part of Italj, and
of nearly all Europe, except France,
Germany, and the Eastern empire,
the division of the peninsula into
some half a dozen or more mutually
independent repnhlics, principalities, or
kingdoms, did not deprire Italy of the
rank of a great power in Europe,
or prevent her from exercising often
evoi a controlling influence in Euro-
pean politics, and therefore was not
felt to he an eviL But when France,
Spain, Austria, and Great Britain be-
came great centralized states, and when
in Switzerland, Holland, the British
Isles, Scandinavia, and North Grer-
many the rise of Protestanism had
weakened the political influence of the
pope, these divisions reduced Italy,
which had been the foster-mother of
modem civilization, and the leader of
the modem nations in the arts of war
and peace, in conmierce and industry,
in national and international law, in
literature, science, architecture, music,
painting, and sculpture, to a mere geo-
graphical expression, or to complete
political nullity, and could not but of-
fend the just pride of the nation. The
treaties of 1815 had, besides, given
over the fairest portion of the ter-
ritory of the peninsula to Austria,
and enabled her, by her weight as a
great power, to dominate over the rest
The grand duke of Tuscany was an
Austrian archduke, the king of the
Two Sicilies, and even the pope as
temporal prince, were little less, in
fact, than vassals of the house of Haps-
burg-Lorraine.

Italy felt that she was not herself,
and that she could be herself and be-
long to herself, own herself, as our
slaves used to say before they were
emancipated, only by expelling Austria
and her agents from Italian territory,
and uniting the whole peninsula in a
single state, unitarian or federative,
under a single supreme national gov-
ernment.. For this Italian patriotism
everywhere sighed, agitated, conspir-
ed, rebelled, struggled, was arrested,

shot, hung, imprisoned, exil
filled the world with its coc
the story of its wrongs and su
It was not that Italy was bat
eraed, but that she was not g
by herself, was govemed by foi
or at least by governors wh
not, or could not, secure her
al unity and independence,
which she could not become t
European power that she as
be, and felt herself capable o
The Fenians do not agitate f
against England so much beo
government in Ireland is now
ever it may have been fon
tyrannical and oppressive, as
it is not national, is not Irish,
fends the Irish sense of nat
far stronger now than in the
Strongbow or that of the con
chieflains. Through the arm(
vention of Napoleon III. h
and the recent alliance with
against Austria, Italy has i
what she agitated for, nationi
and independence, though at
pense of great injustice to \
possessed sovereigns, and is
become a great European pc
she has it in her, and her chro
spiracy is ended. She has <
all that she was conspiring foi
satisfied : she has gained posse
herself, and is free herself t<
that she is capable of being.
The Germans, also, were
discontented, and conspiring
same reason. The Bund was
ery, formed in the interest of
ereigns, without regard to the
or the national sentiment,
practice has tended far more t
and weaken, than to unite and s
en the Grerman nation, both on
of France and on that of Russii
many, in consequence of the
effected in other nations, w
Italy, reduced to a geograpli
pression. Austria in the so
a great power, Prussia cou
something in the north, but C
was a political nullity. The (
aspired to national unity, and

Reeeni European EvenU,

n it in 1848 by the reeon-
with many wise modifica-
s old Grermanic empire, sup-
Napoleon I. in 1806, but
ted by the mutual jealons-
saia and Austria, the with-
the Austrian delegates from
nd the refusal of the Kmg
i to accept the imperial
red him by the Diet, afler
kwal of Austria. What fail-
igally and peaceably effect-
and 1849, has been virtu-
d by Prussia in this year
1866, after a fortnight's
fierce war, not because of
r overrated needle-gun, but
russia is more thoroughly
an Austria, and better rep-
national sentiment,
jess of Prussia must be re-
dnk, not only as breaking up
nfederation, and expelling
>m Grermany, but as really
erman unity, or the union
rmany in a single state,
north of the Main, not as
ly annexed to Prussia, and
I of that line, as yet free
a southern confederation,
perhaps, with the seven or
yas of Grermans still under
rule, in all likelihood be
>y her, and formed into a
tary state with her, and
ber from Prussia into Ger-
is most likely only a ques
ne, as it is only a logical
>f what has already been
A.ustria ceases to be a Grer-
r, and must seek indemni-
'' developing, as Hungary
1 as Austria, eastward, and
d>sorbing Roumania,Herze-
isnia, Servia, and Bulga-
icing herself as an impassa-
to the advance of Russia
in Europe. This she may
3 enough to give up Grer-
to avail herself of the vast
she still possesses; for in
oald probably be aided by
ain, France, and Italy — all
rested in preventing Russia

from planting herself in Constanti-
nople, and gaining the empire of the
world. Turkey must fall, must die,
and European equilibrium requires a
new and power^ Eastern state, if
the whole of Europe is not to be-
come Cossack.

The independence and unity of
Italy, and the union of Germany in a
single state, had become political ne-
cessities, and both must be effected as
the means of putting an end to what
European writers call " the Revolution,**
and giving internal peace to European
society. No doubt they have not
been thus far effected without great
violence to vested rights ; but necessi-
ty knows no law, or is itself law, and
nations never have been and never can
be aiTCsted in their purposes by vested
rights, however sacred religion and
morality teach us to hold them. Na-
tional and popular passions can be
controlled by no considerations of right
or wrong. They sweep onward and
away whatever would stay their prog-
ress. If the possessors of vested
rights opposed to national union, inde-
pendence, or development, consent to
part with them at a just ransom, the
nation is ready to indemnify them lib-
erally ; but if they will not consent, it
will take them all the same, and with-
out scruple.

I say not that this is right ; I pretend
not to justify it ; I only state what all
experience proves that nations do and
will continue to do in spite of religion
and morality. Abab was willing to
pay a round price for Naboth's vine-
yard, but when Naboth refused to sell
it at any price, Ahab took it for noth-
ing. But these political changes, re-
garded as accomplished and irrevoca-
ble facts, and setting aside the means
adopted to effect them, and the vested
rights violated in obtaining them, are
not morally wrong, and are in no sense
threatening to the future peace and
progress of European society, but seem
to be the only practicable means that
were left of preventing it from lapsing
into certain barbarism. They seem to
me to have been needed to render the

Beemti European

European. goYeniments henceforth able
to Bostain themselves by the affections
and good sense of the people, without
being obliged to keep themselyes armed
to the teeth against them. Internation-
al wars will, no doubt, continue as long
as the world stands, but wars of the
people against authority, or of subjects
against their rulers, may now cease for
a long time to come, at leant in the
greater part of Europe. The feudal
system is everywhere either swept
away, or so weakened as to be no long-
er able to make a serious struggle for
existence ; and save Ireland, Poland,
and the Christian populations of the
East, the European nations are form-
ed, and are in possession* of their na-
tk>nal unity and independence. The
people have reached what for ages they
have been tending to, and are in pos-
session of what, in substance, they have
so long been agitating for. The new
political order is fairly inaugurated,
and the people have obtained their le-
gitimate satisfaction. Whether they will
bo wiser or better, happier or more
really prosperous, under the new order
than they were under the old, we must
leave to time to prove. Old men,
like the writer of this, who have lived
too long and seen too much to regard
every change as a progress, may be
permitted to retain their doubts. But
changes which in themselves are not
for the better, are relatively so when
rendered necessary by other and pre-
vious changes.

Tho English and American press
very generally assert that the Em-
peror of the French is much vexed at
the turn things have taken in Grermany,
that he is di8ap[>ointed in his ex{>ect-
atbns, and dct'eatoil in his European
policy. I do not tliink so. The French
policy since the time of Francis L has
been, indeed, to prevent the concentra-
tion and growth of any great power on
the frontiers of France ; as the papal
policy ever since the popes were tem-
poral sovereigns, according to Tosti
in bia Life and Times of Boniface
VIIL, has been to provent the estab-
liahmeni of any great power in the im-

mediate neighborhood of Rome
this French policy and this pi
defeated by the turn things hai
is no doubt true, but what evH
there that this is a defeat of Na;
policy, or is anything else thi
he both expected and intended 1
he entered on his Italian en
against Austria in 1859, he
clearly that he did not intend to
the Papal policy, for his purp
the unity no less than the indep
of Italy. He showed, also,
clearly, that while be retained tl
tional French policy of humb
house of Hapsburg, he did
tend in other respects to susli
policy; for he must have ft
as the writer of this, in
place, told him at the time, t
unity of Italy would involve as i
al and necessary sequence the
Germany. We can suppose I
appointed only by supposing h
tained a policy which he ap{
have deliberately made up his
abandon, or not to adopt.

After the Italian campaign, i
haps before, the unity of Germ:
a foregone conclusion, and if el
must be either under Austria c
Prussia. Napoleon had only h
which it should be. And it wa
festly for the interest of P^rano
should be under Prussia, an ah
clusively German power, rath
under Austria, whose non-G
population was three times grea
her Gt^rmanic population. If the
Grermany had been effected unc
tria with her non-Germanic pp
Grermany would have constii
central Europe a power of nea
enty millions of people, absoli
compiitible with the Europeai
brium ; but if effected under '.
it would constitute a state of on
forty millions, not a power so \
to be dangerous to France oi
peace of Europe. France has
to fear from a Prussian Germ
she is amply able to cope with !
the first war between the two
would restore to Fnnoe her

R^ctiU JSmTopdOH ^Bvntit*

225

ies, bj giring her all the terri-
:he kih bank of the Rhine, and
ke her eommensarate with the
Eeltka.

e is too strong in her unitj,
Bess, and extent, as well as in
li spirit and military genius
)eople, to think of precautions
jermany. The power for her
. against is Russia, embracing
f increasing population of up-
seventy millions, and possess-
leTcnth of the territory of the
She has no other power to fear,
.ustria is separated from Grer-
'russia, capable of becoming a
iritimc power, and embracing
many, not only rescues the
German states from Russian
) and intrigue, but becomes an
ally of France, in the west,
Rdlisia, and far more efficient
Jtworthy an ally than Great
because a continental power,
e exposed to danger from the
enemy. While Prussia becomes
lul ally in the west, Austria,
detached from Germany, and
i to stand without alliances,
a French ally in the east ; and
5 ready to be so, because the
of her future population is
t be of the Slavic race,
eon's policy, it seems to me,
, first, to drive Austria out of
[detach her from Germany, for
(rity of France; and then to
pan-Grermanism against pan-
in the West, and an Aus-
rather, Slavic or Hungarian
embracing the Magyars and
B, against pan-Slavbm in the
^ith these two great powers,
tf against Russia a common
fith France, the Emperor of
ich, the ally and protector of
I nations, will be able to settle
ble Eastern question without
Russia to receive an undue
I of territory or power, and
tout the scandal of sustaining,
to please Great Britain and
Indian possessions, the rotten
if the Turks, and preventing

VOL. IT. 15

the Christian nations it holds, through
the aid of ihe western Christian pow-
ers, in subjection, from working out
their freedom and independence, rising
to national dignity and influence.

Such, briefly stated, has been, I
think, substantially the policy of Na-
poleon, since he became Emperor of
the French ; and the recent events in
Italy and Germany so strikingly ac-
cord with it, that one cannot help
believing that they have been dictated
by it. It seems designed to give
measurable satisfaction to the princi-
pal nationalities of Europe, as it se-
cures undisputed preponderance to no
one, and humiliates no one over
much. It may, therefore, be said to
be a policy of peace. It is a policy,
if carried out in all its parts, that
would enable France, Prussia, Italy,
Austria, to isolate Russia, and at
need Great Britain, from Europe; but
it robs neither of any of its territory
or inherent strength, and is hostile to
neither, unless one or the other would
encroach on the rights of others.

Will this policy be carried out and
consolidated t I know not. It is sub-
stantially in accordance with the ten-
dencies of modem European society ;
the most difficult parts of it have al-
ready been efiected, and we have seen
no movement on the part of either
Russia or Great Britain to assist
Austria to prevent it. Napoleon had
succeeded in isolating Austria from
Europe, and almost from Germany,
before he commenced his Italian cam-
paign in 1859. Should Napoleon die
suddenly, should Russia or Great
Britain interpose to prevent Austria
from expanding eastward before she
has recovered from her losses in be-
ing expelled from Italy and Germany,
and should France, Germany, and
Italy refuse to act as her allies, or
should she herself look to the recovery
of what she has lost, rather than to
the development of what she retains
or has in prospect, the policy might
fail ; but these arc all improbable con-
tingencies, except the flrst ; yet even
Napoleon's deadi would not seriously

,AemU .Bturopetm AmU$.

affect the unity and indopendenoe of
Italj, or the unity of GennanT, as
mudi aa the South Qermana dislike
the Prussians. This age wcnrships
strength and soooess.

TIm most doubtful part of this
Napoleonic policy is the part aasigoed
to Austria in the future ; and the part
the most offensiTO to the Catholic
heart) is that which strips the Holy
Father of his temporal dominions,
annexes them to the kingdom of Italy,
and leaves him to the tender mercy
of his despoilers. The Holy Father,
sustained by the general voice of the
episcopacy, has siud the maintenance
of the temporal sovereignty is neee$*
sonr to the interests of reUgion; bathe
said this when there was still hope
that it might be retained, and he, of
course, did not mean that it is odo-
bttefy necessary at all times and under
all circumstances ; because that would
have made the principal depend on
the aooessoiT, and the spiritual on the
temporal. Moreover, religion had ex*
istod and flourished several centuries
before the popes were temporal sover-
eigns, and what has been may be again.
CtrcumstaDcea have changed since the
Holy Father said this, and it is not
certain that, as it is not a Catholic
dogma, he would insist on it now.

Of course the change is to be deep-
ly deplored, especially for those who
have effected it ; but is there any pos-

sibility, humanly speakinn
eetablishmg the Holy Fatl
temporal rig^ ? I coofess
none. It is a great loss, bu
some arrangement may be ec
with the new Italian pow<
after all, will enable the Ho
still to reside at Bome, and
independently his functioni
spiritual diidf of Christendo
has more need of the p<^
pope has of Italy, and VI
anuel, at worst, cannot
than were the Pagaa ai
Cnsars. No CathoUc can
spair of the church* At pr
temporal, to all human ken,
have triumphed over the
and politics to have carrioi
religion. Yet the triumph <
lasting, and in some way tfc
won will prove to have been
God will never forsake his cl
beloved, his Inride, bis bean
and the Lord will not suflfer
sink when he walks upon tl
Peter*s bark may be violen
on the waves, but the very
dence of the church prevent
fearing that it wiU be submei
what way the future of th
will be provided for, it is no<
determine or to suggest ^
fully confide in the wisdom of
Father, assisted as he will I
Holy Ghost

n§ JSkanmer Jk^ an Gbne. 2i7

Ftom The flzpennj Migirine.

THE SUMMER DAYS ABE GONE. •

The flowers that made the summer air
So fragrant with their rich perfume,

Alas ! are gone, their leaves so fair
Lie fiuled in their autumn tomb.

The branches now are almost bare,

Where summer song-birds made their homes ;
Where trees are green, where flowers are &ir,

Once more the happj birds have flown.

To dislmnt lands o*er sunny seas

The songsters bright have taken wing.

To warble on that warmer breexe
The notes thej sang to us in spriog.

Her autumn robe of red and brown
Onee more the gliding year puts on,

And jonder sun looks colder down

Since the bright summer days are gone.

The stars, the glory of the night,
Look on us still with silvery eye-—

Shine on us still as dear and br^t.
But not from out the summer sky.

The chilly breeses of the north

Tell us it is no longer spring,
And winter's hand is reaching forth

To wither eYcry verdant thing.

So even like the birds the flowers.

When dearest things of life have fluwn.

Then in the heart's deserted bowers
The naked branches stand alone.

Oh, then, alas ! no breath of spring
Can breathe the living verdure on.

No sun will shine, no birds will sing —
For ever is the summer gone.

But when the heart beats high and warm.
And kindred hearts its throbbing share.

It heeds not winter's clouds nor storm,
But rammer tarries always there.

228

Vhetnmeted; or, Old Tkormbfi BIrin.

Wnua The Lamp.

UNCX)NVICTED5 OB, OLD THORNELEyS HEI

CHAPTUB XII.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

The tidings that Old Thornele/s
missing will was found fell like a
thunderbolt upon Wilmot and his law-
yers, Smith and Walker; and their
genuine astonishment was a matter of
equal surprise to me. In mj own
mind I had felt convinced that Lister
Wilmot had had a hand in the suppres-
sion of that will ; and if I kardlj dared
in my heart to believe him guilty of,
'although suspecting him at least of
complicity in, the death of his uncle, I
never doubted but that he knew of the
existence of this )ast testament, and
knowing it, had destroyed it. In my
own mind I had, during many hours of
* solitary reflection, of the most scrutin-
izing study of every fact and circum-
stance connected with all these past
events, arrived at a conclusion that some
unknown link united Maria Haag and
Lister Wilmot together, and that the
double mystery of the murder and the
lost will lay buried secret in their
hearts. But there was no mistaking
the undisguised and overwhelming
amazement with which he received the
communication of Merrivale and my-
self. We made it in person to him be-
fore Smith and Walker ; and I can
only say that his manner of receiving
it exonerated hira at once in my eyes
from suspicion of his having had any-
thing to do with the thefl or conceal-
ment of that will.

Of course on either side legal pro-
ceedings were commenced : Merrivale
on the part of Hugh Atherton under-
taking to prove the genuineness of the
recovered document ; Smith and Walk-
er tor lister Wilmot endeavoring to

repudiate it In less than a
were all ^ bard at it" Meai
will, as stolen property fou
police, was lodged with the
while. Inspector Keene had
disappeared, and this time w
that the purport of his ab
the apprehension of Mrs. He
while, the heir to all this mi
puted wealth played with h
toys, laughed his crazy langl
bered his idiot nonsense, wit]
of intelligence crossing his p(
brain ; meanwhile, Hugh
roamed far over the broad ti
ocean — an exile and a wai
victim of a cruel and shamel
ignorant of the brave loving
was following him so near, <
der eyes, the faithful hand, 1
bid him welcome on that fore

Unwilling as I was to lean
just then, where my presen
any moment necessary, the
one of my best and oldest cli
moned me to Liverpool fen* a
days, and I took a retum-tid
from the Saturday to the Mo
that last memorable visit fro
tor Keene. Who shall eve
doubt the special Provideno
and overruling every event,
cumstance of our lives, howe'
and unimportant they may
the moment of their occurren
journey of mine, which outw
not the smallest bearing or
to the story I am telling, was
the beginning of the end.

Travelling by an early t
rived in Liverpool about thn
After engaging a bed at a I
the station, and refreshing i
man, I set off immediately on

DkeonmeM; or. Old I%amde^$ JBnrt.

9S9

h had broaght me thither.

t Mime of the great shipping

Tower Buildings, close to the

>ming out of one, I noticed a

ing me. Suddenly my arm

id, and looking round I saw

iecne.

bless me! Who'd have

seeing you here ?'

ho*d have thought of seeing

I don't suppose you ever
t would be so, Mr. Kava-
jovL and I have hunted the
T, and now you and I will be
»th."

lean to say you have traced
eeper ?*'

just precisely What I do

is she r*

stone Vthrow from here."
ou have her in charge ?"
tt, sir, not yeL I have but
oed a warrant for her ap-

from the sitting magistrate,
mmj way now to announce
>le tidings to her.**
3a trouble in tracking her ?**
rful deal, sir. She was all
her passage taken to Amer-
e vessel is to sail to-night.
of my finding the will must
led her in Lincolnshire, for
ed her across the country
then 1 lost sight of her, and

her trail this morning. But
low; the house is watched
es. Strange enough, sir,''
«pector, lowering his voice,
sen another after her too."
5r man P'

r. I've caught sight of him
to time, dodging and watch-
lowing her as cute and as si-
ny of tis ; and if his name
ley, well, mine isn't Keene,
•t one of her majesty's de-
«rs."

go with you, Keene T*
* ; it nuiy be like a satisfac-

to see the end of it."
led into a by-street, narrow,
ind dark, where the houses
and overhanging, and fash-

ioned tike those in little obscure foreign
towns, that nearly meet overhead. Be-
fore the door of one a policeman stood,
apparently engaged only in his ordi-
nary duty of looking up and down the
street; but from a glance of intelli-
gence that passed between them I
knew he was on special service — the
special service being to watch that
identical house. The door opened by
a simple latch, and the inspector's
hand was on it, when the poUoeman
stepped back, and whispered to him.
Keene paused for a moment, and then
turned to me. ^ J% is in there ;" and
I knew he meant the man who was
likewise following Mrs. Haag — the
man Bradley.

<< Follow us," said the detective to
the officer on duty ; and opening the
door, we passed down a narrow dark
passage and proceeded up the stairs,
quietly, stealthily. We had gained
the first landing, and Insipector Keene's
foot was on the stair to ascend the sec-
ond flight, when a loud, piercing cry
broke upon the stillness — the cry of
agony. In a moment we had cleared
the stairs and stood before a door on
the left. Keene turned the handle.
It was fattened from inside.

He shook it with a strength I had
not thought he possessed, and demand-
ed admission. There was no answer.
Again it rattled on its hinges, and I
thought it would be too weak to resist
my strength. " Give way, Keene !"
I cried ; ^ I can break it in ;' and re-
treating to the further end of the land-
ing, I ran and brought my whole
weight to bear against it. Useless!
Another weight was strengthening it on
the inside. And then a shriek yet
more piercing, more agonized than
before rang through the house, and
footsteps were heard from below and
above of people hurrying to the
spot. We once more strained at the
door. O God I would it never give
way? I turned to the policeman.
^ You ought to be powerful ; let us
both run together/' I felt a giant's
strength within me ; and as our feet
crashed against the wood it bunt open,

880

DneonvieUd; wr^ Old IhanukffB JEbin.'

and we were precipitated into the room,
almost falling over the hodj of Mrs.
Haag, prostrate on the ground, welter-
ing in a great pool of blood. A large
clasp-knife lay beside her, red np to
the very hilt; and by the window,
with his arms folded, stood a man of
large, heavy build, with dark gipsy
features and lowering brow — a man
who in the prime of youth might have
been of comely form and handsome
coontenance, but who now, with the
wear of more than fifty years* famili-
arity with crime and evil, bore more
indelibly printed in his face the felon
and the convict than ever the mark
branded, but hidden, upon his shoulder
could betray. With one glance at the
miserable woman lying on the floor,
the inspector sprang toward the man,
who stood motionless, and staring at
the body of his victim, and laying his
hand on his arm he said, '^Robert
Bradley, I arrest yon for this attempt
to murder your wife, and for unlawful
escape from penal servitude.** No ex-
pression crossed the man's face— only
the same dull, stony gaze.

" Do you hear ?" said Keene, giving
him a little shake ; " and say nothing
to criminate yourself now." There
was no answer. " Policemen, do your
duty:" and two advanced from the
crowd now gathered in the room and
on the stairs. They slipped the hand-
cu£& on his unresisting hands, and
then proceeded to lead him away.
Meanwhile I had knelt down beside
the unfortunate woman, and was feel-
ing her heart and pulse. She still
lived. " Send for a surgeon instantly,'*
I cried ; and a dozen of the lookers-
on instantly scampered off to do my
bidding. Then, with one cry of an-
guish, the prisoner burst from his cap-
tors and flung himself down beside
the woman he had murdered. He
raised his manacled hands, and tried
to draw her head toward him and
'pillow it on his breast.

"O Molly, Molly, I've killed thee;
IVe killed thee ! ' There was a faint
moan. ^ She's my wife, gentlemen;
befiwo God, she's my wife. I wanted

her to come away with me and
hide together, for weVe both d(
enough; but she wouldn't — ah
me begone : she spoke so haral
looked so cnielly with her ooM
and I was mad, mad — ^and I
her. Molly, MoUyT

With difficulty be was torn
dragged out of the room and Ix
by the poKoe ; then we lifted
most lifeless' body of his Vife a
her on the bed. How far si
been injured I knew not as ye
something within seemed to t
she had received her death-won
said as much to Inspector Keen
the room was cleared a little fr
crowd, and he, I, and one i
women, who said they lived
house, only remained. In less
quarter of an hour two surgeon
on the spot, and we left them w
woman to make the necessary
ination.

^This is indeed being *in
death,' " I said to the inspector
stood outside.

"Yes, sir; yes. And I havi
a consummate fool not to have fo
what would happen.** I saw 1
looking unusually pale and agifc

" How could you help it? * I

'^ I ought to have given or&
to have allowed kim to go in
house. I made over-sure of al
right."

** Depend upon it, Keene,** I r
" neither you nor any one else
have warded off what was to ht,
other and a mightier hand tha
human one has been in this
may not question Qod*s provide

The inspector was silent. Hi
not get over it.

" If the worst comes to the i
I said, " we must be ready to hi
confession taken down. -Sara
will speak at the lasL*'

"Not if I judge her rightl;
she will make no sign now.*'

" Nay, I trust she wilL If w
guess at is tnie, it is too ten
think she will die with that m
souL^'

VkeonckUd; w^ Old TXomefej^f ffeifi.

881

a Cktholic, sir, I believe ;
her priest, bat what use is

does ikatj there will be no

book his head despairinglj.
oade sach a mull in my life

n one of the snrgeons eame
both eagerly turned to him
ame question: ^Will she

am tell? While there is
is hope. The wounds are
troos ones. There is little
her ; still there is a chance.
g now for instruments and

my house close by. She
le in the hospital, but we
move her. The sole hope
iching the bleeding ; it has
* the moment, but the least

cause it to break out afresh,
s anything of her? who is

in the matter? We have
articulars as yet*'
xplained in a few words all
^cessary.

Ml tell me where to find the
tholic priest ?" I asked him

away.

next street to this there is a
eL I know the priest at-
Bxoellent man, though he is

Pardon me; perhaps you

olic?"

hot blood had rushed to my

mtarily, not for the man's

at the grave thoughts which

Migh my mind — ^the hope,

what those ministrations I

to seek would do for the
Oman lying in that room.

1 Catholic," I said briefly ;
mything you like, I don^t
[ come out with you, and
r me the way to find this

and brought him — Father
He was a roan who had
and grey in the care of
had stood by many a death-
leen called to witness the
if many a dying sinner;

never had his services been more need-
ed than now. On our toad I briefly
related to him the circumstances, and
all I knew of the poor creanire to
whose side he was hastening.

When we arrived, they t^d as she
had been conscious for a few moments,
but was now again insensible; that
during that lucid interval she had mur-
mured a name which sounded like
Wihnot «Send for Mr. Wihnot,"
the doctor had understood her to say.
Keene and I looked at each other.

« Telegraph for him," I said.

^ Would he come, sir, do you think F'

^ Telegraph in Mrs. Haag's name.
Simply say, * Danger; come imme-
diately.' That may bring him. ELe
will get it in time to catch the night-
maiL"

Keene departed.

The room opposite the one where
the injured woman lay was vacant, and
I took possession of it, knowing that
the inspector would station himself on
the spot. Presentlv the two surgeons
came in, and con&rred together ibi
some minutes in low tones. Then
they turned to mo and to the priest,
who waited there likewise.

^We have probed and dressed the
wounds, but she lies perfectly uncon-
scious at present ; two nursing sisters
from the hospital have been sent for
to take charge of her, and it will be
necessary for one of us to remain here
during the night. There is just a
hope and no more. What we have
most to fear is internal hsBmorrhage.
She may probably linger out the night,
or even a day or two, in the event of
no favorable change taking place.
But her state is most critical."

^1 shall go home and make ar-
rangements for remaining here during
the evening and night, if it is neces-
sary," said Fatlier JUumrioe in his quiet,
determined way.

I expressed my thanks.

<< There is no need," he said; ^if
all is well in the end, I shall have my
reward."

When Inspector Keene returned he
told me be had dated the to&pgram

28S

ViiBmvi€ied; or, Old IHomde^i Bltkt.

from mj hotel, and that it woald be
best for me to return there bj and by,
and await the arrival of the night
train. It was then between six and
seven o'clock.

How that long evening passed I
know not There we sat, we three
men — ^Inspector Keene, Father Mau-
rice, and I — saying very Uttle to one
another, and the prevailing silence
only broken by the low whispering
sounds of the priest as he said his
office, and the hushed footsteps of the
surgeon, who remained coming in and
out from time to time.

Oh I would she ever wake from that
terrible unconsciousness? would no
power of mind, no strength of body,
no grace of soul ever be given her to
unlock all the dark secrets of her
heart, to clear the innocent and pro-
claim the guilty ? Must she go down
to her grave without one act of sor-
row, unshrivcd, uncleansed, without a
moment in which to make reparation
for the terrible past, for all that world
of shame and suffering that had fallen
so cru shingly upon guiltless tieads ?

It was just upon ten o'clock, and I
was preparing to leave for my hotel,
when Mr. Lovell, the surgeon, came
in and beckoned to Father Maurice.
They Icfl the room together, and soon
the surgeon and tlic two nurses came
in. The former stooped down and
whispered to me, " She asked to have
a priest sent for, and I told her one
was here. It seemed a relief to her.
She has not been conscious more than
fire minutes.''

The inspector looked across at me
with an inquiring glance. I think he
had grown suspicious of me, and feared
I was conniving at some concealment
about her confession.

** As soon as my prisoner ** ( laying
a stress on the word ) " comes to her
senses, sir, I ought to be told. There's
something to be got out of her before
she gives us the slip, and Til Imye no
interference in the matter.** The in-
spector spoke roughly. I took hun
aside.

^ KeenOi if you ever want to get at

the bottom of what lies on t
ed woman's soul, believe no
taken the best means to
object in allowing her to i
Maurice.**

""But A0 won't tell what
bless you ; Fve seen them
for it Not a word, Mr.
not a syllable, sir, shall ve

"Very likely not from
he will make her toll."

The inspector stared at
cynical smile on his lips.

I contmued : " Do you tl
no interest in wishing to
woman's soul, in longings
longing you cannot undei
know who committed that I
which has robbed me of 1
friend? Man, what is thei
with you in comparison wil
has been driven from his
and his home? What is
professional vanity to coc
what he has lost — name, 1
tion — everything most de
save one ?"

" God bless you, sir, 1
right!" said the little mao
my hand ; '* and you'll ph
cuse me. For hang me I
I'm jealous of those pries
seem to ferret out in one t
costs us detectives days an
hunt for, and puts us on oui
And one ain't a bit the wist
ter all; they do keep it s
sure. Fd give much to 1
dodge."

** Ah, inspector, it's a <d
ther you nor I possess,
this in God's hands. If th
thing that ought to be mi
publicly, it will be known.'

In a quarter of an hour '.
went into the sick-room, an
ter Father Maurice came 1
It was curious to see the
glance wliich Keene cast u]

" I have warned her of
said the priest "She see
to make a statement to sc
person ; Mr. Lovell adviM
should be albwed some real

Ukeonvided; or, Old Tkomele^s Hein.

283

eonne yoa will judge of what is best
to be done, having the poor woman
ooder your charge;" and he looked
aows at the inspector.

Keene colored up and shufiBed his
(eet *^ Of course it's as you and the
other gentlemen think proper, sir, '
he said ; then plucking np his courage,
^'There^s a deal she's got to tell which
wn^ to l)e known in proper quarters,
though I know that gents in your pro-
fauoQ ain*t fond of letting on what
thej hear. But I'm responsible in
this instance to goTemment, sir ; and
I hope jou'U remember it."

"Just 80," said the priest coolly,
but with an amused snA ; ^ and it is
In the presence of lawful authority, or
proper witnesses, that she must mukc
herstatement, or, as you would call it,

Inspector Keene was shut up.
'Never heard tell of such a thing in
all mj life," I heard him mutter to
himself; ^ this one can't be a Raman,^

I waited for another report from the
nrgeon before leaving ; and when he
Gune in he said she had rallied a good
deal, and that he thought no further
change for worse would take place
dormg the night; so I lefl, desiring
that I should be sent for if anything
£d occur. The mail was due at half-
pait three in (he morning, and there
wu all the probability of TVihnot
Inivelling by it if the telegram had
readied him in time. I determined
to nt up and meet the train at the

At a little after three I was on the

pklfonn, pacing up and down in the

chiUj air of the early morning ; the

itm aiione through the glazed roofing,

ttd the moonlight mingled cold and

Ne with the flaring gas. Save a

fawsy official here and there, I was

iloQe--«lone waiting for mine enemy.

iad yet but little of enmity stirred

Bf hnrt in that still hour — only pity,

deep onuuerable pity. I had never

Ifad Lister Wilmot much, even in

flU times; and of late — well, what

Med to think of it, though his sins had

hao great? But somehow the re-

membrance of past days stole over
me— days when he and Hugh and I
had been young ; of pleasant hours
passed together in social intercourse,
of merry-meetings, and all the joy-
oasness of young men's lives. Yes,
even with the thought df Hugh Ath-
erton before me, I felt softened to-
ward the wretched man for whom I
waited then. Shame, disgrace, and
ignominy were awaiting him, and I
was to lead him to it. After all' he
was a fellow-man, though he had dis-
graced his manhood. At hist, with a
whistle and a shriek, the train rushed
into the station. I ran my eye along
the line of first-class carriages, and
presently saw a slight figure with fair
hair alight on the platform. In a ukh
mcnt I stood before Lister Wilmot,
and I never can forget the unearthly
color which overspread his face as his
eye fell on me. Had he been armed,
my life had not been worth much in
that moment.

" Tou here V* he hissed between his
teeth.

"Yes, Mr. Wilmot; I am here to
meet you."

" Then you sent that telegram, curse
you !*•

"No, not I, but Inspector Keene.
Some one is dying, and has need of
you." Perhaps my soU^mu face re-
vealed something to him uf the truth,
for a change passed over his counte-
nance.

" Who is it ?" he asked with white,
quivering lips.

" Mrs. Haag."

He threw up his arms wildly above
his head. "Dying! O ray Godl"
Then, turning to me, " How was it T'
he asked.

I hesitated for a moment in pity.
" She met with an accident,^' I said
at last, not daring to tell him more at
once.

"Where is she?"

Ji never seemed to occur to him
that it was strange I should be tliere ;
the one piece of news I had imparted
had stunned him with its shock.

"I will take you to her/' I an-

S84

Okeomnded; or. Old Tkameby'M Hdn.

■wered, and putting mj arm in his,
led him off to a cab in waiting. lie
never spoke all the while we droTe to
the house in Cross street, where the
hoosekeeper lay, and when we got
down suffered me to lead him up-stairs
like a child* Inspector Keene met ns
at the door.

^I'm thankful you've come, sir;
Mr. Lovell sent off a message to the
hotel half an hour ag^. The priest
is with her."

•< How is she T uttered Wilmot in
hollow tones.

Keene answered : ^ There^s been a
change; I don't know more. She
has asked again for you," turning to
Wilmot

Mr. Lov^ came in.

^ Is this the gentleman, Mr. Wil-
mot ?'' he asked.

« Yes," I repUed.

<*Thcn whatever she wants to say
had better be said now."

Inspector Keene touched me on the
arm.

^ You must take it down in writing,
sir ; here's pen, ink, and paper. You,
Mr. Lovell, and I must sign it."

"Yes, yes. I will"

And we entered the room.

The housekeeper's &ce was turned
from us when we came in. One hand
lay outside on the coverlet-^that
white, well-formed hand, that looked
more like a lady's than a servant^s.

At the foot of the bed stood Father
Maurice, and a nurse was bending
over the prostrate form and wiping
the moisture from the brow. She
must have heard us enter, for she
looked round, pale, ghastly, in the
wretched light of the fire and candles.
The surgeon went first, then Inspec-
tor Keene, then I and Wilmot. She
marked each one as we approached
the bed, eagerly, wistfully. At first
Wilmot shrank behind me, and my
tall frame hid him from view. Her
lips moved.

** Where is he ?" I heard her mur-
mur. " Where is Lister Wilmot ? '

The surgeon approached her with a
glasa.

"^ You must drink this ;
you strength to speak."

He lifted her head, an
lowed it; then turned 1m
more toward us.

*' Lister, are yoa there i
He stood forward, but
near her.
** I am here."
She gave a low moanin
Father Maurice went U
" Say what you have
my poor sister, and make
with God."

" Raise me up a little,"
the surgeon ; and they liftc
on the pilk>9 ^^" ^°
tones, with many a pause
and breath, with the de
standing upon her pallid
the vision of life and J
come nearing her momeni
in the presence of us all,
made the confession of he

CHAPTER xir
THE HOUSEKEEPER'S CO

*• Thet tell me I am a d
and though I feel as I i
fore, I can hardly realize
thought to bring myself
words I am going to sa
story I am going to telL
long I have been a wicket
don't ask your pity — I do
and if you now feel pitifi
lie here, when you have I
will turn from me with
spurn the miserable crc
you. No, I never thou
come to this— that I shoul
out the sins of my life,
listened to words this nigh
not heard since the days
hood, from the lips of thi
and they have done what
could da I could fancy n
once more, kneeling at
knee and saying the *C
lispmg the prayers I ban
to teach my ekiUL My c

Okeatwieted; ar^ (Hd l%armebjfs Heirs.

285

will he not carae his mother, knowing
what she is, and what she has made
him ? My child, who will rise np in
judgment against me at the last daj,
because in loving him I have worked
Ids raiQ ! Better he had died, my faii^
haired boy, nestling hi3 baby head
against my breast, cooing his Iwby cry
in mj ear, than live to be what I have
made him. Better far we both had
perished — mother and son — and been
buried in one grave ; the angels wonld
aot have veiled their faces then as they
veil them now. Life and strength are
ebbing fast, fast iiom me ; and if I
warn to say all that I have to say — all
'the cniflliing load of gailty knowledge
that lies upon my soul — ^I must hasten
on* Lift me up a little more — ^it is
bard to get breath — and turn my face
irom the light, sister. I can bear it
better when it is dark. I go back to
the beginning. One is standing there
who has a right to know all I have to
telL*

^ I am a Belgian by birth, a native
of Antwerp. My father was clerk in
the custom-house there, and I was his
oofy cliild. He and my mother lavish-
ed their love and their all upon me, and
I received a very good education. At
KTenteea I met Robert Bradley ;
hb was mate on board an Eng-
lidi mercliaut-vcssel. My parents
looked down on him, but he Joved me,
ud soon my heart was bent on him.
We ran away together and were mar-
ried at Plymouth. I never saw father
iMr mother nor my native place again.
They died soon after; I broke their
kails. A year after our marriage my
kby was bom : it was the first joy
ttmixed with pain I had known since
IM Antwerp when the boy was placed
hny arms ; it was the last I was ever
tebave. Six months afler his birth
Kobert got into trouble; trouble that
koogfat him in danger of the law. His
ai|iloyerB dismissed him, and we were
fated to quit Plymouth, where I had
fifed since our marriage whilst he was
iK tea. The little savings Robert had
pot by were soon gone, like his char^

r, mad we had to tramp, tramp, till

we came io London. There he got
temporary employment on the river;
but he was changed. He was no lon-
ger like the Robert of old days, the man
I had loved and for whom I had for-
saken everything. Poverty pinched
us very sorely; but if he hnd been
what he was when I first knew him I
would have minded nothing. But he
degraded me, and I felt he would de-
grade my child. It was all I cared for
now — ^my little boy ; let him remem-
ber that. Oh! let him remember it, that
he was all I loved and cared for ! For
more than a year we struggled on
through misery untold. Robert drank
terribly, and this vice brought out the
coarseness of his natun*, the low habits
he had contracted amongst his seafar-
ing associates. At last, when it came
to seeing my boy wanting bread, I
could bear it no lon^r ; and one day
I left the wretclied hole where we lived,
and with the child in my arms walked
away from London. Miles away I
wandered beyond the Surrey hills, with
a little money in my pocket and my
best and only gown on my back, lying
down to rest in the sweet hay-fields or
by the woodside, for it was summer-
time, till at last one early morning I
reached a little village, and sought rest
and shelter at a small farmhouse. I
found both, and I likewise found
friends— or ratlier my child did. He
was fair and winning with his baby
beauty, and the mistress of the house
took to him, having just lost hers. I
stopped some months, helping her in
all her household duties, for I was very
thrifty and handy, and I earned my
own bread and the boy's. But his fu-
ture troubled me. I wanted money to
educate him, to sot him forward in life ;
and I determined to go into regular
service. When my friends heard of
this they offered to take charge of my
little one, whom they loved as if he had
been their own. So it happened that
when I came across an advo-fisement
for a married woman to take charge of
a city merchant's house in London and
act as housekeeper to him, I answered
it I referred to the people I lived

S86

Okeonvietad; or, Old TXonMfey'f Etin.

with and to the clergTman of the par-
ish, and finally was engaged bj Mr.
Gilbert Tbomcley. Perhaps the low
wages I asked induced him to take
me ; perhaps having seen me, his keen
shrewdness detected there was a storj
that was mine, and so could trade upon
it and grind me down. Anyhow I en-
tered his service in the spring of 1832.
Of my husband up to that time I had
heard nothing. I assumed my maiden
name, and carefully concealed every
clue to finding either myself or my
child. The kind people who had taken
charge of the boy were named Wilmot.
He was christened Robert; but they
gave him the name their dead child had
borne, and he went by the name of
^ Lister Wtlmot.* I made no objection ;
it helped to conceal him from his fa-
ther."

There was the movement of a vio-
lent shiver in the form that stood next
to me, and a low muttered sound ; I
did not catch the words, but tfie dying
woman must have heard something,
for she paused and half turned her
head, as if listening. Then after a
moment she cod tinned her narration :

" I liave no need to describe to you
Gilbert Thomeley's character. What
right have I now, with death so close to
me, to malign the dead I And yet I
must tell, because it is part of the
burden I am hiying down, all the ha-
tred, tlie contempt I felt for him as I
got to know his meanness, his low cun-
ning, his niggardly ways. The clerks
he kept on miserable salaries, the work-
men he employed and ground down to
the uttermost farthing, all knew and
told me of the heaps of wealth that
were flowing into his coffers ; how sum
upon sum accumulated in his hands ;
and how his name was a byword and a
proverb for a rich and prosperous man.
And one hundredth part of that wealth
had bouglit me the only joy I ever
craved now — union with my child, and
security for his future ! I brooded
over this in long lonely hours, brooded
until I grew mud, until Satan entered
into me, and I turned my face from
God. Just at this time my master was

away from home for many week
did not know where he went,
what businesn ; but on his retn
made two announoement^ to me
that he h^ bought a house and
in Lincolnshire ; and secondly, tl
was going to be married. I re[
supposed he would now no longei
my services. To my surprise ai
may, he answered me by sayii
should require me to go down
new house and act there as housi
er. He added he had discover
about me, where my child was, ai
whole story of my husband ; that
now in his power; if I would
him faithfully I should never wa
money, and that my boy should I:
warded in life. If I refused, he
make everything known, and pal
ert on my track. I consented
main in his service, and to do ai
he required.

** I went down shortly into Lii
shire to the Grange; and the
brought home his young bride,
this time I had got to know ma
his secrets. I had sold myself t
and he paid me ; handsomely ei
for him, considering the miser tt
was. His wife was not happy-
could she be ? She was kept si
in that dismal Grange from moi
month, without a soul to speak tc
him or me. He did not want he,
wanted her fortune. That has
told before. To spy upon her, to
her, was my office down in those d
fens ; to walk with her, to atteo
in her drives, never to lose sight <
except when with him. If sb
liked me, if she had shown any
ness to me, I would have bee
friend, and shielded her from the
tyrant whom she called husband,
she treated me with haughtiness-
undisguised contempt ; me, whc
her in my power. I have hoi
and passions in me, cold and phl^
as I seem ; and she roused the pi
of hatred within me. DunQ]
residence in Lincolnshire, my hn
traced me out through an tuocM
circumstance. We had one intei

UkeoHvteted; ar^ Old Itamele^s Heirt.

287

He entreated me to return to liim ; but
I would not. He threatened to keep
ID eje on me, to watch me. I dared
1dm to it. Afterward I found that J
Ind been foolish to brave him. A year
after her marriage Mrs. Thomeley
bore her first child ; but before that an
erent occurred which influenced and
sealed her fate. I detected her in two
stolen interviews with a cousin of hers,
an officer in the ermy. My master be-
liered that when her aunt died she had
no firing relative left. I bear witness
DOW that nothing passed at those inter-
TiewB that all the world might not have
beard; but I used my knowledge of
tbem with Mr. Thomeley. I have
said before he wanted her money and
not her, and this cousin turning up.
frightened him. He accused her of
aD that was most shameful, egged on
bjr me. I was the richer for it. I had
DOW a goodly sum put by for my boy.
Then the heir was bom; a weakly,
poling child. You know what he
grew np to be — an idiot Mrs. Thome-
ley was very ill ; I knew her hus-
band did not wish for her recovery. I
did not suspect he absolutely wished
her death. At last she died — sudden-
ly. Only he and I were in the room,
i was that ' other person^ spoken of by
bim to Mr. Elavanagh. She died by
pniNc acid administered to her by
bin ; and / discovered it. Henceforth
k was in my power, not I in his. I
bqit silence, and the matter was hush-
ed np with money.

''The baby was left to be nursed at
the Grange ; and my master and I re-
toed to town. Once more I settled
^Mm to my old duties' in the city
kose, bearing in my breast the know-
ledge of my master's fearftil secret.
^ sense of right and wrong, all con-
icieDoe, was deadened within me ; the
Keret was mine — mine to turn into
pM iod riches for my child. I went
down to visit him at the farm in Sur-
xej; and as I pressed him in my arms
I whispered to him of what he should
k—ft grand, rich gentleman.

"Two years after this time my mas-
ters widowed sister, Mrs. Atherton,

died ; and he adopted her only child,
Hugh. I saw that this would prove
either an aid or an obstacle to my
plans. Very little, I found, was known
about Mr. Thomcley's family; he had
come to London as a lad, from a dis-
tant part of England. One evening I
sought him, and opened my scheme to
him. I had him in my power, terribly,
irremediably ; and he consented to it.
I was to bring my boy away from Sur^
rey, and he would adopt and bring him
up as the child of another sister, with
his nephew, Hugh Atherton. He was
to retain the name of Lister Wilmot.

** Excepting during occasional hasty
visits to the Grange, Mr. Thomeley
never saw his son and heir. The child
had been bom an idiot ; that he would
ever be otherwise was hopeless.

" I went down to the little farm and
brought away my boy — ^my little Rob-
ert. For two years he had never
seen me, and had forgotten his mother.
I brought him away from hL) friends,
from all the pure, simple influence that
surrounded him there, from the inno-
cent joys of country life, from the
wholesome atmosphere of honest toil
and hibor — ^brouglit him up to dwell in
the abode of one whose liands were
dyed with crime, brought him within
the baleful influence of his mother's
teaching. Too late now — too late ;
but as I see it all at this moment, it had
been better to beg, better to die, than
have brought him within the shadow of
that man's gold.

" Once more my husband burst upon
me. He was jealous, he said, jealous
of my master, and ho insisted upon
knowing where his child was. With
fabe promises I got rid of him. It
was late in the evening when he came
and went. He had a companion with
him — an ill-looking Irishman, named
Sullivan. That niglit the house was
broken into. Being roused, I surprised
one of the burglars retreating ; he was
the image of my husband, and yet it
was not he, I felt convinced. But it
gave me an idea. If I could swear to
him and he were taken, he would be
transported, and I should be free from

S88

UnemvicUd; or. Old ThamA^M Bnr$.

him, at least for a time. I helped In-
spector Keene to detect him bj means
of anonymous letters, and then swore
to his identity. He was condemned
and sentenced to twenty years' penal
servitude. I hare not much more to
tell, up to last October.

"The two boys grew up together
into young men^-one the real, the
other the pretended nephew of Mr.
Thotneley — and as hu joint heirs. Of
his own son nothing was seen, nothing
heard ; he might have been dead, but
that I knew he was not If Lister
Wilmot had only succeeded to one-half
of Gilbert Thomeley's fortune his fu-
ture would have been amply, brilliant-
ly provided for. I coveted more for
my son ; he coveted more for himself.
In those days he never knew I was his
mother ; but I had tended him when a
child, and he used to confide in me. It
was the only sweetness I ever tasted
amidst the cup of bitterness I had pre-
pared myself. He was proud and am-
bitious ; I dared not teU him who he
was. So he grew up in ignorance of
our relative positions — ^he, the reputed
nephew and joint heir of the richest
man in Euglaud ; I, his mother, that
man*8 housekeeper* and servant He
confided in me ; and sliortly afler Mr.
Hugh Atberton's engagement to Miss
Leslie, I wormed from him that he too
Joved her. This and some money
difficulties be got into at that time were
harassing him sorely. I could not see
my boy suffer and not try to help him
— ^I could not see him thwarted in his
love ; and one day I went to his cham-
bers and told him 1 possessed a secret of
his ancle's, and would use it in his fa-
vor. He then said how jealous he
was of his cousin» how fearful he felt
lest Atherton, being Thomeley's favor-
ite nephew, should at last be led sole
heir. That evening I once more sought
my master ; and using all the power I
had over him, extorted from him an
oath that, with the exception of a nomi-
nal sum left to Mr. Atherton, a will in
fiiyor of my son as his sole heir should
be made on the morrow. This was
done. That will was read on the day

of the (oneraL Alter ma kin*
master never seemed well or i
and day by day, hour by
watched him in fear and dread
should revoke it We were b
ried on mysteriously to our fat
"" On the 23d of October ]
Thomeley received a visit fr
John Kavanagh in Wimpole si
misdoubted the object of the int
watched, listened, and overfa
great part what took place. Tl
ing for the two men servants, a
saying on returning to the kitcl
they had been signing their ni
something which lo >ked like
confirmed my suspicious. T\
devil once more entered into n
What! afler all my toil, my
ing, my sufierings ; afler havii
tered my salvation for this n
pottage, should my boy be cas
upon the world when the old mi
and not inherit a penny of the
he had been taught to conside
fully as his own? Never,
rather and die. Die ! Th(
haunted my brain and rang in i
—die I Who should die but
old miser ? Then a terrible res<
possession of me, and I dressed
and went out The history
evening is known to you all /
woman who met Mr. Kavac
Vere street; /was the worn
entered the chemist's shop and
the poison ; /was the woman n
the money to James Ball and bi
not identify me. I saw the i
between Mr. Atherton, whom ]
and Mr. Kavanagh, whom ]
also, because he was his frit
heard the whole of their conve
and then the future opened out
lighted by the flames of helL
home ; and scarcely had I arrive
first Lister came, and tlion
Atherton. I heard them talk
gcther ; I heard my son say he
trouble about money, and that
going to ask for some. That w
I had poisoned the old man's mi
told him days before that Ather
leading Lister into extravagano

Umemtfiettd; «r, OU !I%»mele^9 Sinn.

2d9

r son had gained Miss Leslie^s
IS, he shooid never have come
\t. Tboniele3r for a son. Ho
tated against his nephew ; this
was the crisis. What I have
explains his words to Mr.
1.

nine o'clock I took up his
sfreshment. Ale wcu poared
glass, and into the ale poured
ipded the paper of strjchnine
at the chemist's. Strangely
I did it anoheerred hy Bar-
e little thought there was need
h me. Strangely, too, Mr.
1 never noticed that I spoke
r as I left the study. I said
in a low voice : < Don't give
de his ale to-night; let him
himself' The resalts* were
breeaw. Lister never stirred,
Atherton handed the glass to
le. I put the paper in the
if Mr. Atherton's overcoat as
through the hail on my way

le night I went into the dead
only took his keys, sought and
le will in the escritoire in his
Mine were the footsteps heard
airs hy the cook. I took the

concealed it up in my bed-
ectoally as I thought ; but it
it This is the historv of that
the 23d of October last ; this
ystery of Gilbert Thomeley's
He was murdered by me."
eeble voice ceased, and the
Bad sank lower upon the pil-
'e thought the end had come,

priest and surgeon hastened
jing woman's side. But it
10 ; her task was not yet done.
I interval ot* many minutes
ied again. Whilst she had
SVilmot gave no sign, save
I shuddering movement. I
fly taken down her confession
and, standing just as we had
grouped at a little distance
) bed; and when she was
looked round at her son be-
There he stood with his
led, motionless and rigid, his

eyes Bxed on the ground, his lips
drawn tightly together, set and firm,
and a dai^ heavy frown upon his
broww His face was deadly pale.
^ GoQ move his heart," I inwwily
prayed as I looked at him ; for it was
like gazing on a block of granite.
Presently I heard Father Maurice
say to her, ^Are you able to speak
without pain? You have said all
that is necessary."

"No, no!" she replied, '^not all;"
and turned her face, on which the
shadow of death was gathering fiist,
toward us once more. How long she
had been unburdening her soul we
had taken no count, and the grey
dawn was stealing in at the window
as she spoke again. It wb» opposite
the bed.

" Will you undraw that curtain, sis-
ter?" she said; "I should like to
look once more upon the sky before I
die. It is very long since I dared to
lift my face to it without dread ; there
seemed to be an eye looking down
upon me with such terrible anger. It
is gone now, the great fear. Can this
be peace that is stealing over me?
Peace for such as I ?"

Father Maurice stooped down and
spoke to her in a low tone, and I
saw her hands fold together and her
lips move. In a few moments she
spoke once more. Her mind was
wandering. " Robert 1 where is my
boy T* and she started forward. ** It
is growing dark ; why doesn't he
come ? Lister !"

Oh ! the anguished longing of that
cry, as if the mother's heart went out
and broke with yearning I Would he,
cotdd he resist that appeal ? " Mother !"
I saw a wild movement beside me,
and a figure rushed forward and fiung
himself on his knees by the bed. I
saw him encircle the dying woman in
his arms and press his lips passion*
ately to hers. She laid her hands
round his neck and smoothed his face,
just as if he had been a child. '^ Rob-
ert, my little Robert l" The uiter-
vening years had passed away to her
mind ; the memory of crime and sin

240

VnMUvieUd; or. Old n^mAj^M Bmn.

was taken from her, and onlj the oon-
seioasness of her child's presence was
with her. " Forgiveness T we heard
her murmur ; und she drew her^on's
head jet closer to her hreast Then
there was a dead stiUness. Once
more the surgeon approached and
toaehed Lister Wihnot on the shoul-
der. He raised his head a little, and
the arms that clung round his neck
fell powerless on the coverlet,

<< She has fainted," said Mr. LovelL
Lister knelt on whilst restoratives
were bemg applied, with his face
buried in his liands. After a while
consciousness came back; her ejes
opened, and ligtited up with a gleam
of inedible joy as thej fell upon her
son's bent head She passed her
hand caressingly over his hair, and
then Hi it rest ui)on his shoulder.

^This is more than I deserved,"
she said ; and her voice was fainter
than when last she had spoken. <* I
ought not to have such happiness as
this. Are you there, Mr. Kava-
nagh ? '

^ Ye?, I am here ;" and I went up
to the bedside.

** I have done grievous wrong to
your fri<»nd Mr. Atherton. Can you,
can he forgive me ?*'

I told lier yes, freely from my heart,
and I knew I might say so from hinu
She moved her liand restlessly over
Wilmot'8 hair, and a momentary look
of trouble crossed her face.

I asked her if she had anything

else to say to me ; not to fear. That

I prayed the Ahiiighty Father to for-

. give her, even us I forgave any trouble

she had caused me.

" My son, my poor boy I What will
be done to him? He is innocent of
the crimes I have revealed — innocent
of the murder, innocent about tlie will."

Then a broken, hollow voice an-
swered, ** No, mother — not entirely.
I suspected there was something
wrong, but the temptation to profit by
it was too strong."

She looked more troubled; and I
thought she glanced at me piteously,
impbringly.

^ Do not let that disturb yoc
may trust Atherton. Nothi
be done against your son.
peace."

^Robert, don't kill me!
not got him here. He is safe.
Robert, little baby ! kiss me, k
mother. It is very dark. I
see him;" and the poor ham
dered over the coverlet. M
near, and the low solemn tone
priest were heard saying the
for the dying. The red stn
early morning shed their fai
on the dying woman's face ;
moved, and Wihnot passing 1
beneath her head, raised her
on his shoulder ; ahe stole her
round his neck, and we he
words, " Forgive I Mercy I**
was a long struggling sigh,
for breath ; the blue-grey eyes
once more and looked tow:
eastern sky, then closed in dea

CH1.PT£B xiv.
EXEUJJT OMXES.

This story which I have be
ing, acted now long years ago,
ing to an end. The unfortunat
keeper s confession cleared up
entirely what had mystified f
fled our inquiries for so many i
and, standing beside his moth<
— the mother who hod loved
too well for her peace — List
mot, in the depth of his him
and the grief which tlie tide of
affection, so recently aroused
him, had wakened, added wh
was wanting to throw comple
upon the dark mystery of the j

On the day before the rem
his unhappy [>arent were eonsi
the grave, as ho took his last 1
of the corpse, he told me his on
his temptation and his fall. A
him the f^ins of his parents had x
with double vengeance upon hi
the evil in them had reprodue
in him. Deluded with the be

Vkeanmcted; ar^ Old l^omde^s Heirs*

341

le heir to immense wealth, he
ti full swing to his besetting
tnbling. ThQ billiard-table,
ng-house, and that curse to
en, secret betting clubs and
had been his familiar though
resort. There, too, he had
and fallen into the meshes of
e but too familiar to the fre-
of such places — a man (if
claim pretence to manhood)
n years, CTcn to gray hair ;
lose who gain the substance
pports their infamous liTes by
upon the young, by entan*
heir web young men destined
pride and hope of high-bom
prith stainless lineage ; or tlie
noble houses ; or the youth
} not less noble, though per-
e in the sense of present deeds
arted worth ; or sadder and
uneful still, the young man
e only son of his mother, and
idow, her sole stay and sup-
ito such hands did Wilmot
I he met the man Sullivan or
Through him he became
> in some disgraceful gaming
ad De Vos used it to get him
ironghly into his power, and
strength of it to extort money
u Then came his real but
1 attachment to Ada Leslie,
sequent jealousy of Hugh
. An affection requited might
n his salvation ; unrctumed
eless, it became his moral
*eeper and deeper he plunged
faster and faster he gambled.
.ve those who haunted the
nes as himself knew how far
jiTolved, how far lost; none
pected a tithe of it, save one.
mother's eye, the mother's
aid not be deceived. She
e had been taught to look
ly as his uncle's housekeeper,
nursed and tended and pet-
as a child— she saw the care
ble of his mind ; she sought
Us confidence to a great ex-
B told her he was overwhelm-
debi and difficulty, and 4^^
VOL. IV. Mfc ■ 'f

urged him to apply to Mr. Thomeley
for a sufficient sum to free him at
least from danger. That application
was to be made on the very evening
of the murder. She hinted to him
darkly that she had the means of forc-
ing Thorneley to give what he re-
quired, and that she would risk every-
thing and hesitate at nothing for
his (Wilmot's) sake. The first suspi-
cion which entered his mind that she
had indeed not scrupled even at the
worst, was on the morning after Old
Thomeley was found dead. This had
strengthened more and more ; but the
temptation of his opening prospects, of
the princely fortune which he found
he alone was inheriting, dazzled,
blinded him, and stupefied his con-
science. A yet greater inducement to
evD lay in the alluring thought that if
the murder of Old Thomeley were
saddled upon Hugh Atherton, and his
disgrace, his banishment, if not his
death secured, there might be a
chance of winning in time Ada Les-
lie's afiections for himself. To this
end he had labored, ostensibly endeav-
oring to establish belief in Hugh's
innocence, and acting as his best
friend, but in reality undermining
Mrs. Leslie's faith in him by the most
subtle diplomacy, and shaking, by the
most specious representations, Hugh's
trust in and friendship for mc. With
Ada alone he had met entire defeat
Steadfast and unwavering had been
her solemn, unqualified declaration
that her affianced husband was guilt-
less ; steady and unwavering likewise
— God bless her for it! — had been
her childlike trast in her old guardian.
And this maddened him.

Then came Hugh's acquittal, accom-
panied by public censure and public
disgrace. Here was a loophole through
whi<?h a ray of hope gleamed upon Wil-
mot's dark soul. Atherton writhed
beneath the shame that had fallen
upon him with all the anguish of a
keenly sensitive nature ; and Wilmot
played his game with this. He lost
^;no opportunity of making Hugh feel
;*Jus position; constantly, though dul-

242

Dheontneied; ar^ Old Thomdtift Heirs,

fiillj, he brought before him the shadow
that was over hiniy and would artfully
represent to him the magnanimity of
Miss Leslie's conduct in mshing to
share his blighted name and fortune.
Hugh's first propostion of emigrating
he had opposed outwardly, working in
the dark to bring about its realization ;
and when Hugh was actually gone,
he felt at last that the field was clear
for him, Wilraot described his rage
at finding that I had outwitted him as
ungovernable, his desire for revenge
burning and deadly. Then came the
discovery of the wilL Of its exist-
ence he had in truth been ignorant;
and though suspecting some complicity
in the matter on the part of Mrs Elaag,
once possessed of Old Tbomeley s
money, he had buried his suspicions in
his own breast Three days after the
will was found by Inspector Keene, he
received a letter from the housekeeper.
In it she told him of their relationship
in brief words, with no further expla-
nation ; she said that the discovery of
the missing document involved her in
serious trouble, and that she was hast-
ening to Liyer[)ool to catch the first
vessel for America. Then he felt for
the first time that his heyday was over,
that the worst might shortly come ;
and he too began hasty preparations
for leaving England secretly. In the
midst of these came the telegram from
Liverpool, and the subsequent tragic
events.

This was the epitome of what Lis-
ter Wilmot (I keep his assumed
name) told me the day before his
mother's funeraL I said to him,
"You have not explained one thing.
Why, when I went down to the
Grange, did you send De Vos to fol-
low me and drug the coffee ?"

" I did not " he said. " I knew
absolutely nothing of it." And at such
a moment I felt he was speaking the
truth. He continued: "I have not
seen D«; Vos for months ; and I be-
lieve he has left the country."

I found afterwar J that another per-
son was to clear up this remaining
item of the mystery.

Of Wihnot I have little
tcU. In the abyss of his hu
and degradation the message
mercy reached his soul ; in tl
of his heart, chastened and
he listened and responded to
per. So far as Hugh Athe
concerned he went scathelc
through the generosity of
whom he had so deeply in
was enabled eventually to en
the same land whither his un
mother was flying for refuge •
met her death. But before
had a duty to perform, a sti
duty of pain ; and he set hi
the work resolutely, unshrink

In the Liverpool prison la
Bradley the elder, biding his
the murder of his wife ; and
lips we were to learn yet mon
plete tlie history of the pasi
and once only, the father and
In the bitterness of his tro
his newly wakened penitenc
had turned and clung to the
had ministered to his dying
and in Father Maurice, aftci
found his best friend. At hi
the old priest went with hin
single interview with his fatli
■ *• I never meant to kill you
Robert,*' the convict said to
" Heaven is my witness, I n
a thought of harm to her wh<
atler her in Cross street. 1 1
ay, I loved her, little ..as ;
think it now. I loved her tfa
left me, though she hid my fc
though she brought him u
know his father ; though she
me with a crime I never ©
and got me sent to prison an
and a life in comparison wi
death will be sweot; the
spurned me and defied me,
her with all the might of i
all the passionateness with
loved her when she came to
young bride. Away in tl
settlement, amongst that hide
beneath that burning sky, I h
and thirsted more for one k
face, for one touch of her In

Ukeomneted; or, (Hd J%omelej^t Hsif%

243

iged for a drop of water to
parching thirst or cool the
\j lips. Thej tell me she
od the story of our lives —
eiy and shame. I have
few particulars. In one
lieve I have wronged her ;
her guilty of Mrs. Thome-
i; I thought she wished to
place. I used the threat
suspected to induce her to
irith me; but she spumed
er ; she told me she would

gallows rather than live
^in ; and then the madness
1 I struck her— once— stwice
dher."

that passed in that single
tween the two Robert Brad-
fas heard ; it was not meet
should be known. They
dy, in bitterness, in shame,
Y in either heart, with a
nguish, of feelings surging
souls to which they dared
utterance. They parted
mt in peace : the son who
known his father until now
, in what a terrible manner !
who had never looked on
nee the time when he had
on his knee and listened to
trattle. Parted, never more
this side the grave.
e convict once or twice be-
■ial came on, and I found
hat he had known Sullivan
all his life. That he was
e's track when she went
d Grange, and De Vos was

That the latter, seeing
md thither likewise, and
Mm to fear me both for his
radley 8 sake, had given me
ring dose in my coffee at
gh Station, trusting to the
lich did really happen.
as his appearance which
ilarmed his wife and caused
Itnquish her visit to tlie
Purther than that he could
O information. Strangely
le bad companion of the
invred the bad companion

of the son, though in totally diffinrent
ways. There is nothing more to tell
of Robert Bradley. He was tried,
condemned, and sentenced to death;
but the sentence was commuted to
transportation for life by the exertions
of his son. Father Maurice had the
satisfaction of receivmg from his lips
the assurance before he lefl the Liver-
pool Docks bound for his final journey,
that he accepted his sentence as the
only expiation he could make for his
long career of sin.

And what of those who were once
so near and dear to me— dear still,
though far away, Hugh Atherton and
Ada, now for many years his wife —
what of them ] We never met again ;
humanly speaking, we never more
shall meet upon this earth. There is
a writer — to my mind the essayist
par excellence of this age, with power
to touch the finest chords and sound
the most hidden deptlis in the heart of
man — who says that he knows no
word of equal pathos to the little word
<*gone." And it is the word which
expresses the long bUink, the great
vacuum of all these latter years since
they went away — since they have been
among the ''gone.'' And bow is it,
you will ask, my readers, that still
they should be far away when all the
storms and clouds which had shadowed
their horizon passed away, and the
sunshitfe and fair blue sky once
again greeted them ? Well, it was in
this wise:

Tidings of all that took place in
LiTcrpool were instantly forwarded
to Hugh Atherton at Melb3ume, and
we thought we should welcome them
all back to England ere long ; but he
did not come — ^he never will come
now. He wrote that the thought of
returning to England was insupporta-
ble to both himself and Ada; that
they would remain where they^were,
and where he had received the great-
est happiness of his life — his trae and
tender wife. They settled in Aus-
tralia, some miles from Melboume,
doing much for the new colony io the
way of usefulness ; and Hugh devoted

244

Vheanvicted; or^ Old 7Aamd^9 Hdn.

himself to the interests of his adopted
country. His name is well known
there, and it is coapled with every*
thing that is good and great. I hear
sometimes from them, most often from
Ada. Her mother died a few years
ago, and she has lost two children.
They have three living, two boys and
a girl; the yoongest boy is called
Jobi after me. She would have it so.
Ko, the old friendship between me
and Hugh has never been rekindled
into the same warmth ; we are friends,
but not the friends of yore. I do not
blame him ; he was blind, blind ; and
so we drifted away from one another,
or rather he from me. It was just
one of those clouds which come be-
tween human hearts because they are
human ; and then we see through a
glass darkly whilst earth clings so
closely about us. By and by aS wiU
be clear. He thought I should have
confided his unclS's secret to him or
Merrivale under the circumstances.
Perhaps I ought. If I was mistaken,
if I kept my solemn promise to the
dead too rigidly, Grod pardon me ; I
did it for the best. But we may make
mistakes in our shortsightedness, in
our finite views, in our imperfect
comprehension of events over which
we have no control, and in which we
have very little hand. If he outlives
me, he will perhaps know this ; and
the knowledge of it, the memory of
our ancient friendship will bring back
the tenderness of his heart for me;
he will feel, I pray not too sadly, that
he also was mistaken when he with-
drew the trust and confidence that
never before heaven had fiir one mo-
ment been betrayed.

S<Mne yean ago I bt
Thomeley's idiot son ; h
me up to the time of his
less, but irrational to the
a satisfaction to his guard
me he would receive ev
and attention; and the
died in my arms, repead
distinct and childish manii
I had taught him to ad
Father in heaven — he w!
known a fiUher*s love <m

I am akme in my ok
I turn to write the last
story.

The stillness of evenin,
on afast, and the fire bw
fore it lies old Dandie-
now and stiff with age.
nor I can ramble out 1
country lanes, or across
Heath, as once we used. •
come and gone, and the
circlet on my finger has
and worn, but it will la
Shadows of the past an
and voices of the past
whispering in my ear. 1
that has fallen upon mj
Ada! is this ^ worse than
the tears should rash 1
guardian's eyes when he tl
and writes your name \
time? Nay, that has p
with the bygone years thai
on into eternity. A little
the daric strait that divk
our beloved shall ^narron
like mere;" a little long
hope and patience, and tl
will come. Not now. Hog
Ada : I shall see you by i

JkvelopmeiU of NaHonaUUe$*

24d

-.V

DEVELOPMENT OF NATIONALITIES.

.Each age through which civilized
kmntnitj hu passed, has its special
ebnderistic If, as most people ad-
idty the nineteenth centurj has inaa-
gVited a new era ii\ the history of
■nkind, the characteristic of that era
viD be foond in the rapid strides
ifaidi the various races are making
Imid the attidnment of a nationid
autenoe. This development of na-
tnalides is not, however, peculiar to
Mr time ; on the contrary, through its
Mbe oonrse modem history presents
&e same scene — a scene varied in-
M and oflen interrupted, hut pre-
•enring its unity to such an extent as
to JQsdfy us in discemmg therein a
hw of Providence. The constant
JMnuDg of each individual afler hap-
fneiB is used hy philosophers as a
poof that he is destined to one day
ittain it, and we are not quite sure
ftit the noble aspirations of the great
nnkr heart do not indicate on the
pttt of the great Buler a design to
OM day famish it with a realization of
tekpes. The individual attains his
«id in the future world — the people in
tto present. Those who respect but
^ the popular feeling call it mer*
QdU. They are righL Dash some
J^^itoiy on the ground, and observe
^ the particles you have separated
^wildly on the surfiace as though
j*4ing to be reunited. Do you see
^ naturally they coalesce when
^oght in contact? There is an af-
*^J most perfect between these par-
1^ and so there is between peoples
^ the same race. Both were origi-
^} separated by violence, and the
i''^^ of reunion is in both quite
^^^9t9L Modem history presents no
Mm more vivid than that of the

disintegrated peoples of the earth slow-
ly but uniformly tending toward a re-
union of their separated portions.
Just now the figures seem more dis-
tinct — they stand out in such bold re-
lief that prejudice herself perceives
them. A gigantic war, commenced
and finished almost with the same
cannon's roar, has knocked out the
keystone of a governmental fabric
once admired for symmetry, and rul-
ers see that in their structures they
must imitate those architects who seek
for stones that fit well one with an-
other. People say that Beelzebub
once gave a commission to a painter,
for the portrait of his good dame
Jezebel, and that when the poor artist
despaired of picturing a countenance
fit for the queen of hell, the fiend
turned to a collection of handsome wo-
men, and taking a nose from one, an eye
from another, mouth from another and
complexion from another, he manu-
factured so foul a visage, so dire an
expression, as to cause the votary of
art to die outright. Various fishes
make a very good chowder, and vari-
ous meats, well condimented, produce
an excellent olla podrida ; but history
shows that the various races into
which it has pleased God to divide
mankind, cannot be indiscriminately
conglomerated without entailing upon
the entire body chronic revolution,
with all its attendant evils. If you
can so merge the individual into the
country as the United States have
done with their cosmopolitan popula-
tion, no difficulty will be experienced ;
but if you take various peoples and fit
them together as you would a mosaic,
the contact will prove prejudicial to
their several interests, and powers

246

DeMiopmmi of HM

which would have otherwise develop-
ed for the good of the body corporate,
will either lie dormant or exercise a
detrimental effect upon the neighbor-
ing victims of short-sighted policy.
Something more than interest is felt in
noticing the way in which the peoples
now enjoying national existence have
attained so desirable an end ; we are
enabled to thereby judge, with some-
thing like accuracy, of the map those
who will come after us must give of
the world* So long as man is man,
just so long will it be in one sense
true, that history repeats herself; but
we do not believe in that system of
Vico which would make of her a mere
whirligig — ^introducing now and then
something new to certain portions of
mankind in rotation, but nothing new
to the world in general. Such a sys-
tem might satisfy that conservative of
whom some one has said that had he
been present at the creation, he would
have begged the Almighty not to de-
stroy chaos; but our prejudices are
against it, and though in avowing
some prejudice we are pleading guilty
to the possession of a bad thing, wc
think that in this case history will turn
our fault into a virtue. We do not
contend that modern times present a
picture of national development ac-
cording to tlie system of races so uni-
form as to contain no deviation what-
ever, but hbtory does show us that
such deviations have been more ttian
counterbalanced by subsequent chang-
es. The general rotundity of the
earth cannot be denied, because of the
inequalities of its surface. The Amer-
ican Republic furnisher us with no
conflict of races on account of the fact
already alluded to. Tlie various peo-
ples of Asia and Africa scarcely afford
us a theatre for observation if we take
our stand upon modem history, since
for all practical purposes they are yet
living in the days of Antiochus. Eu-
rope shows us a field worthy of re-
search, for there were thrown together
the mongrel hordes of Asia and the
North, and with their advent and to
the music of their clashing weapons a

new scene unfolded itself to
of man. With the fiill of the
empire commenoe all reflecti<
modem history, for then dan
era by the release from the n
thraldom of the Roman Gesa
innumerable peoples of the ea
notice the manner in whi<
tribes grouped themselves int
al and integral existence is <
ent purpose. In the early sn
1866, had we been asked to
the peoples of Europe, we wo
spoken as follows: The m
Europe worthy of considerat
which are now re^rded at
or " unified,** are France, 1
Spain, Sweden and Norway, f
sia proper. The nations as j
tegral are Germany and Ital
disnationalized peoples are i
Ireland, Poland, Huncrary :
dependencies, Venice, Roumi
Servia. Europe may hence
garded as composed of, l3t,
which are tit se one and ui
and leading therefore a nation
ence ; 2d, peoples not under
foreign to themselves, but still
with others of the same stc
peoples governed by foreign
Of this latter class the most pi
evil is furnished by the heterc
Austrian empire, to compose
drafl is made on Hungary
Hungarico-Sclavic dependent
Germany, on Poland, and (
The late war has changed tl
tion somewhat, but the clasf
may remain unchanged.

The first class of nations
integral by the grouping tog)
peoples of common origin;
steadiness with which thej
their destiny and the easy mi
which they consummated i
us to believe that the others
attain a like end. Up to the
Alfred, England was comp
seven kingdoms. The old
stock had been hidden in th
tains of Wales, and the Angl
race, which held undisputed sv
the land, became one. Frmi

Ihvelopment of NoHonaKtUt*

247

tk most unified of all nations, was
for centuries the meet distracted. In
A.D. 613, she was composed of four
klDgdoms: Neustria, Austria, Bour-
gogne, and Aquitaine. AAer the con-
quest of Neustria, Austrasia con-
qners Aquitaine in 760. The Ho-
muu found a new po\^r in the
Doitb, but the people bear ill the
fk&. The French kings give them
the aid of tlieir arms, and after vari-
008 losses and successes Charles VIL,
io 1450, unites the regions defini-
livelj. The powerful duchy of Bur-
goodj, which, for fire hundred years,
ifflpeded the unity of France, was at
k^h united to the crown in 1470.
Spioo, once composed of Leon, Cas-
t^ Aragon, and Navarre, was not
ooified until 151 G. Scandinavia
(Sweden and Norway) was, before
tlie tenth century, composed of twelve
lUtes. It was then reduced to two,
Sweden and Gothia, while in the
thirteenth century these two were
muted. In 1397, the "union of Cal-
ntr^ added Norway, and to-day the
probabilities are not very small for
^ annexation of the remaining
Scandinavian power, Denmark. Es-
pecial attention is merited by Russia
proper, by which term we mean the
DttKm so called exclusive of her
fixreign conquests, Finland, Lapland,
Poknd and her dependencies, Cauca-
*Ut and Greorgia. The groundwork or
bondation of tliis people in blood,
knguage, and customs, is Sclavic
^ proper name of the nation is
MoMovy. When, in the middle of
Ife fiiU»inth century, Ivan lY. shook
^ the Tartaro-Mongol yoke, the
^Intcovitcs commenced that headlong
<|u«er of annexation and amalgama
BOO which in four centuries has unit-
^ more than twenty once independent
P^ric peoples, and has formed what
f Bow dcnommated the Russian na-
^ Although not directly coinciding
*ith him, we must here allude to the
Miction of the first Napoleon that in
•contuiy £urope would be either
«cpQblican or Cossack. We half sus-
M thai he leaned toward the first

horn of his dilemma, and we do not
think he imagined that his second
should include a physical sway of
Russia over Western Euro|>c. If,
however, the lance of the Cossack
seemed to him to weigh heavily in the
balance of power, history sufficiently
justified him to prevent our regarding
his remark as absurd. When he saw
that either by force or persuasion the
Schivic peoples were being slowly but
surely united, he might naturally re-
gard as probable the incorporation
of the remaining Sclaves of Poland,
Bessarabia, Roumania, and Servia.
Thirty years after he so talked, Bes-
sarabia went the way of her sisters,
and Roumania and Sen^ia are year by
year nearing St. Petersburg. We do
not think, however, that history will
warrant the application of Napoleon's
theory to Poland and her depen-
dencies, although they are Sclavic
When history shows us the innumera-
ble tribes of Europe, left free by the
fall of the WesteiTi empire, little by
little grouping themselves by races
and situation, so that in a few centu-
ries are formed the nations now inte-
gral, she informs us that if such group-
ings were sometimes violent, they
were still conquests sui generis. They
were not national hut political. The
great Baron de Jomini, in his Precii
de VArt de la Guerre, insists most
strongly upon the importance of a gen-
eral understanding whether the war
he is about to undertake be a national
or a political war. We think the
principle is just as important for the
historian. A national war is one of a
people against another ; a political
war, of a dynasty against another,
either to revenge an insult or to ex-
tend its own domain. The effects of a
national war are terrible, and the pre-
judices engendered are not easily
eradicated ; those of a political war
are light, while there are entailed but
few prejudices since the people have
had no voice in the matter. In a po-
litical war the people are not conquer-
ed — they merely change masters, and
often instead of receivinj^ any iignzy

S48

D e ve k p me m of yMmoNltei.

experience a great benefit Thus,
when Ivan of Moscow conqaers Nov-
gorod, the Sclaves of Novgorod
are not conquered — a dynasty falls
and not a people. Such a conquest
leaves behind it no heart-burnings in
the masses, while, on the contrary, if
the people united were hitherto not
only disintegrated but also disnational-
iJEed, ic is a consummation by all de-
voutly wished. Poland, however, be-
longs to another category, owing to
the religious antipathy existing be-
tween her and Russia. So great has
this hatred of late years become, that
the war for the incorporation of the
unfortunate kingdom is at last nation-
al, not political— a war of peoples and
not of kings. Such a war cannot be ter-
minated by annexation — ^nothing can
end it but an annihilation of the popu-
lar spirit. Let us bear in mind, then,
that if modem history shows us a
gradual development of nationalities
and of unity in national government,
there are certain principles according
to which changes are wrought. But
how is it with the two nations of Eu-
rope as yet disintegral? Have they
hitherto tended toward unity ? An
impartial and conscientious study of
their history convinces us that they
have been uniformly nearing the goal
which more fortunate nations have al-
ready reached.

In the eighth century Italy was, the
Roman States alone excepted, entirely
in the liands of the barbarian. From
A.D. 1050, however, the two Sicilies
commenced to enjoy a half-autonomous
existence, there being but a personal
union by means of a common sover-
eign between them and the countries
whose rulers successively wore the
Sicilian crown. In 1734 the king-
dom became independent, and thus in
this part of the peninsula was made
the first step to unity, namely, inde-
pendence of foreign rule. Parma be-
came independent of the foreigner
while under the sovereignty of the
Famesi in 1545. Tuscany became
independent in 828, and with the exoep-
tioQ of eighty yean, dozing which the

German emperors mismrped
vestiture of the duchy, remai
The small rqmblics need no i
Venice was independent from
1797. The Milanais was
more or less subject to the
Savoy and Piedmont were ev
pendent. Italy was slow in h
free from foreign domination,
so slow in the concentratior
strength. The innumerable st
principalities of which she w
composed gradually amalgams
til in 1859 there were but sevt
hundred years ago there wert
really independent of each ot
many more virtually so. Wc
intend to touch upon the que
Italian unity in its bearings n
independence of the Holy Se
will woik out the problem Ion
any disputation of the poh
come to a conclusion. This, 1
we feel, that if Providence ha
the peoples of Europe in the
national development, it is for
of man and in aid of true p
and if in the case of Italy
promise can be effected wit
jury to Holy Church, the fi
Italy will prove that she has
tained the end of other counti
history will show that until
has tended to it. When stud
facts of history, one should n
his feelings to blind his peroe
the scenes that pass before
his insincerity would prevent 1
a successful defender of an
however good.

A few reflections upon
history as bearing upon the tl
ndtional developments oannol
terest us, both on account of
war, and on account of the ;
objection accruing to our posil
the fact of Grermany's see
be an example of a great na
slowly disintegrating herself.

The history of Germany
divided into three periods : li
the " Holy Roman Empire *' i
rise of I^ssia ; ^d, under t
from the rise of PrusBia imti

J> 9v e bf m uU of NaUmuOkiei.

249

er the oonfederadon until the
day. In the first period diere
I immense number of principal-
als not only of each other, but
lim who held the imperial seep-
lie emperor depended so much
s foreign vassals for his infla-
it he could scarcely be regarded
rman sovereign governing Ger-
Ues. Suddenly Prussia arose
thing, and with majestic strides
nearly all the north ; then for
t Ume the Germans beheld -a
»f respectable strength, essen-
rerman. When a nation is
mto many parts, its first step
unity is the acquisition of a
toward which all may tend.
s by the origin of Prussia since
ieiding with facts and not prin-
: present. We know it is the
with a certain school to excite
ly for Austria by alluding to
f Brandenburg ; but as we are
who believe that a man's own
t scarcely less discreditable to
n those of his ancestors, and
ir memory fresh with recollec-

the long unbroken chain of
\ which the House of Austria,
powerful, heaped upon the

of God, we ask to be ex-
' we allow no false sentiment-
mtrude upon us. The rise of
and the interest manifested in
he unitarian party, forced the
' and the secondary princes to

German, less foreign, in their

This second period, therefore,
ments of unity which were

m the first. The third period,
:, gave something more. In
fapoleon L bade Francis IT.
I his title of Emperor of the
., and assume that of Emperor
ria, and then disappeared even
le of that which for two hun-
m had been a shadow. Then
e federal union of all the Ger>
d only the Grerman provinces
ifederation in which the inter-
Germany might be consulted

pre^dice fit>m foreign con-
f— A union fiiU of fiuUtS) we

confess, and in. many respects a slu^n,
but yet an advance toward national
unity.

We know of no records by means
of which we can ascertain the exact
number of independent states with
which Germany was accursed under
the feudal system, but we know that
after Prussia had swallowed up many
there were before 1815 nearly a hun-
dred. Before the late war there were
thirty-seven. How many there are
now the telegraph has not informed
us, but we imagine the number has be-
come small by degrees and beautifully
less.

Since 1815 the march toward Ger-
man unity has been more steady and
more uniform than at any other period*
The pressure exercised upon Austria
by Prussia, upon the secondary princes
by their people, has forced them to
seek German rather than foreign alli-
ances, to study Grerman more than dy-
nastic or local interests. The Zoll-
verein, the Reform associations, the
hue and cry openly made about unity,
the very entrance of Austria into the
Holstein war, and latterly the alliance
between the liberals and a statesman
whose principles they have uniformly
opposed, all indicfite the popular effer-
vescence, and excite a suspicion that
ere long Grermany will be united. All
the machinery of which governments
can avail themselves is used by Aus-
tria and the secondary princes to ward
off the danger which menaces them.

The friends of the system of \yhich
Austria is the last important standard
bearer, give us a bit of news which,
if true, would be interesting, since it
would be the first time we could con-
scientiously receive it, that the cause
of the Kaiser is the cause of the
church ; that to his banner are nailed
her colors. The jackal follows the lion
to pick up his leavings, but his eating
them does not make him a lion. The
fact of the matter is, that the history
of the church gives so painful a pic-
ture of her struggles with kings and
princes, that it is to us ^ matter of
complete indiffurence whether the vio*

250

Devekpmeni qf 2faii(malUiei.

tory be won bj the impersonation of
military autocracy, or by the sickly
anomaly now catching at straws for
an extension of life — unless, however,
the victory of the former were to vin-
dicate the principle that the peoples of
the earth have rights to daim, and
were to result in the end in the col-
lapse of its winner, and the leaving
thereby of a powerful nation in tlie
hands of popular government. If this
latter consummation is reached, we
shall be ready to do what we can to
attach the children of the church to a
particular government, for we believe
that tlieu the church will have in
Europe more than ever a fair show,
so to speak, at humanity. The
church is for the people, and for them'
alone — when she approaches a king,
she approaches him as a man — and
she need fear but little from those for
whose interest she lives. The popular
heart quickly conceives an affection,
and is seldom mistaken in its impulses.
We have alluded to an opinion held
by some that Grcrmany is an example
of a great nationality disintegrated
after centuries of intcpfral existence.
If history deals with words and not
with facts, if empty titles and euthursi-
astic notions are criterions of national
condition, then that opinion is correct ;
but if (he calling the Emperor of
China the Child of the Sun gives him
no solar affinity, we must hold the con-
trary one. The ancient so-called unity
of Germany was not only an empty
word, but the very title Emperor of
Grermany had no foundation in law.
When the imperial crown was trans-
ferred from the French Carlovingians
to the House of Saxony, its mode or
conditions of tenure were not changed
by the Holy See. Just as Charle-
magne, though Emperor of the Bo-
mans, was not Emperor of France, but
as before King of the Frp.nks, so Conrad
of Franconia, Otlio of Saxony, and their
successors were emiMjrors of the Ro-
mans, and mere feudal superiors of the
other German princes. If, in the lapse
of time, the bolder of the sceptre of
the '^Uolj Boman Empire' (which

alone was the legal title fro
imperial rights derived) can
caUed Emperor of Germany,
dkl not originate in law, bu
common parlance of the
French, and English, who re
in the emperor a foreign pr
who-^at least the two latte
naturally repugnant to the i
monarchy system, constantly
upon the emperor's primacy
to them purely honorary. •
for the title. As for the Hoi;
empire itself, nothing to prov<
cient unity of Grermany can be
from it. The public law of th
ages was based uptm the ]
then the foundation of all ecoi
sacerdotal supremacy and prin
jection — a blessed thing for hui
that time by-the-by, which th
some protection from the tyn
then ruled the earth. Europeai
meat became hierarchical ; at
stood the pope, then came the
then kings, etc. Now, accord!
titles of courtesy in use at th
might be supposed that Fn
England were subordinate to
peror, yet their constant histoi
them to have been independe
sceptre. If, then, this so-call
rection of the western emj
purely nominal, was it mere!
ific ? Was there no authority
to it ? If there were none, c
as to Germany itself, of a part
the emperor was a hereditar;
we would conclude at once
Europe could not then be cs
so could not Grermany. Our
tion, however, is not so self-ei
There was an authority re
the imperial sceptre over the j
Grermany, but for all matters
tical importance it was, with
ception of a few privileges, the
tliat enjoyed over Italy, Hung
hemia,etc, viz., that of righto
ture. If, however, from thii
imperial suzerainty any argui
be gathered for the ancient unit
many, we must say that at thi
time Egypt, BoamaQia, and Si

Devdoifmml of HlgticnalUiei.

251

Forkej, Liberis one with the
ates. If before the late war
was not integral, it was not
the ancient system. Then it
aperor, in our days it had a
let — the emperors' decisions
srally laughed at, while the
of the diet were respected
)wed to decide. Nor, while
lo disparagingly of the impe-
Ty do we allude to the time
imperial dignity had become
ippet show — to the period be-
rise of Prussia and the an-
of the title. We need not
rselves to the time when the
^derick could laugh at his
other, the sacristy-sweep,"
rival his power; the same
ifficacious influence was ever
he day when Conrad accept-
adem— one only period ex-
it of Charles Y., and even he
ng in force, and was obliged
b to his powerful ** vassals.**
ry of no country, either in
r in Asia, can afford an ex-
iuch persevering strife for as-
as that which the princes
nj presented, either among
s — ^the emperor a spectator —
in factions against him and
8. The imperial dignity was
hings great, and over some
' its existence there is a halo
tmt only in its external rela-
he Uohciistaufen emperors
inheritance both internally
lally powerful princes ; their
y of Suabia and their im-
«sessions of the Palatinate
them such a number of per-
als that they did much toward
le imperial sceptre respected,
r kingdom of Sicily and lord-
Ian caused them to be feared
But then it was not the em-
• was feared, but the Prince
if the Count Palatine, the
{icily, and lord suzerain of
i Tuscany ; just as under the
s and the Lorraines it was
nperor but the Archduke of
Dog of Hungary, of Lom-

bardy, of Naples, of Illyrium, who, by
means of his personal and hereditary
states in foreign lands, commanded that
respect from his German rivals which
a purely Grerman emperor never ex-
torted. The unity of Germany under
the Holy Koman Empire was therefore
not of fact. It was an idea — quite
poetical certainly, but still an idea.

When we consider the obstacles
which had to be surmounted by those
peoples who have already attamed a na-
tional existence, we must fain believe
that those who are yet panting for it
will not be long disappointed. Rouma*
nia and Servia have been for centuries
dreaming of independence, but we must
remember that only at a recent period
did civilization commence to act upon
their peasantry. Even now many
of the boyards seem to bo removed
scarcely a generation from their Dacian
ancestry. All the Sclavic peoples of
Eastern Europe have much to acquut)
before they can be called fully civilised.
The tyranny, however, to which they
owe most of their backwardness has of
late years very much diminished, and
already they commence to ask them-
selves the question which has so long
preoccupied other minds, Are the peo-
ple created for the ruler, or is a ruler
establish^ for the people? When
men commence to think seriously on
such subjects, action is not far off.
Bucharest and Jassy have been the
scene of tumults which have made
many a European conservative cry out
that nothing but an iron rule wDl bene-
fit the Roumanian — that Roumanian
nationality will prove a seminary of
trouble for Europe. We believe in
lending a helping hand to a degraded
people that they msgr in time raise
themselves to the level of their fellows
--we would deem ourselves worse
%ian their tyrants if we regarded the
passions which tyranny has engendered
as an excuse for that tyranny's perpet-
uation.

A bright day seems to have dawned
for Hungary— at least so think the
Austrian wing of the Hungarian pa-
triots. For these gentlemen the un-

2*2

De v do p wtm f ' of NatumdHHeM.

gennanization of Austria means that
Pesth is to be the capital of a new het-
erogenous empire. They should re-
member those long years during which
they mourned the short-sighted policy
which drowned Hungarian nationality
for the benefit of Germany, and reap
from them a knowledge of other sins
they will commit if they repress those
nationalities which are as sacred as
their own. Heaven cannot bless those
who claim liberty for themselves and
deny it to others.

And in the midst of this conflict of
the peoples of the earth for real or ima-
ginaiT rights, how fares the church of
God ? Excellently well, for no change
man will here below experience can
ever unman him. So long as tliere
are people on the eardi, so long
will there be souls to save, and
Uie church will be ever on hand to do
the work. But there is more to be
said. Of tliose people who are now so
strenuously laboring in the cause of lib-
erty, a largo proportion are outside of
the church. Many of them are work-
ing from a pure love of justice, as Gk>d
has given them the light to see it, and
if they arc true to their natural convic-
tions the supernatural will yet be en-
grafted upon them. It cannot be de-
nied, howcFcr, that there are many who
throw their weight into the scale of lib-
erty because they think Catholicity is
in the other scale, and that they will
henee contribute to weakening the hold
the church has upon man. Would they
could live to see the day when liberty
shall have triumphed — were it only to
realise the true mission of that church

they now so bitterly hate 1 ¥
day the church totered upon
rious career she has been cc
contending with the potentatt
earth. Her first struggle was n
force, and she triumphed. I
ond contest was more terribl
means brought against her wi
insidious. Under the pretext <
ing her, the gods of the earth <
her limbs with golden chain
pretty they seemed, and how
cently some of her members
them! How anxiously son
after them yet 1 But th<
torn away, and — great provi
Grod ! — ^by those who thought
ruin her. Her enemies
yearns for that society noi
peared. Has she forgott
much those struggles cost her
tlemen of the liberal world,
mistaken if you think the chu
the success of your designs,
another illustration of the trul
saying, that God uses even the
of men to further his ends. T^
will have succeeded in oblitei
artificial distinctions of caste t
ilege, and will have actuat
vaunted ideas of liberty and
the churph will confront }
thrusting you aside, will reo
what with you would alway
idea — fraternity. Those who
plaud you will lift from the chu
eyes of suspicion and jealousy,
realize how greatly you were i
when you odled her retrogi
tyrannical.

Pkjfrieal Science and OhritUan SevekUion.

258

PHYSICAL SCIENCE AND CHRISTIAN REVELATION

BY BET. JAMES ▲• 8T0THEBT.

the phOosophers of the nine-
oentary are proad of its scien-
liaracter, it is not without rea-
if they oongratulate themselves
ing penetrated further into the
I of nature than their predeees-
lie impartial judgment of future
irill confirm the opinion. It is
inarj age that has, in the first
' its course, produced men of
It eminence in every branch of
\, and contributed discoveries,
okble alike for their intrinsic
and their influence on the wel-

* mankind. The progress of
fsical sciences, since the year
has been rapid and unprece-
; some of them have assumed
icter and position entirely new,
sequence of the numb^ and
icy of the discoveries, and the
ince of the principles unfolded
tion to them. Another era in
lory of chemistry opened with
's atomic theory, aided by the
ig industry of Berzelius, in its
u application; the labors of
m reducing the number of sim-
nents by means of voltaic elec-
and Farada/s patient and even-
ing discoveries in the wide field
tro-magnetism, have developed
al science to an extent, and in
tkm, which a former generation
have deemed fabulous. During
me period, geology has been
1 from neglect, and from serious
I of unsound tendencies, and
Jtoed in deserved rank among
iences by the emment labors
Ith and Buckland, of Sedgwick
tdabeche, of Lyell and Mur-
md Miller, llie stamp of the

• been pat on the science of

optics by the discovery of the polar-
ization of light by Mains ; by the sub-
sequent extension and perfection of
that discovery by Brewster and Ara-
go; and, more remarkably still, by
the profound investigations and inde-
pendent research of Young and Fres-
nel, on the subject of the wave theory
of light. 2^logy, especially in its
bearing on geology and the history of
the earth, has been carried to astonish-
ing perfection, by the intuitive genius
and sagacity of Cuvier and .A^assiz
and Owen and Forbes. In the his-
tory of astronomy, the queen of the
sciences, the nineteenth century must
be ever memorable as that in which
was first established the appreciable
parallax of some among the stars
commonly called fixed ; at once span-
ning the hitherto illimitable abyss
which separates the solar system from
those distant luminaries, and opening
up to human intelligence clear and
better defined views of the vastness
of the universe. The names of Bes-
sel, Struve, and Argelander, of Airy
and Lord Rosse, and the two Herschels,
are associated with observations and
discoveries, for which future ages will
look back to our time with admiration
and gratitude. The more recent ob-
servations of Herschel on Multiple
Stars may be assumed to have estab-
lished, the existence of the great law of
gravitation in regions of space, so re-
mote from our sight, that the diameter
of the earth's orbit, if searched for at
that distance, through telescopes equal
to our most powerful, would be invisi-
ble. The drcumstances attending the
discovery of the most distant planet,
Neptune, are perhaps the most extra-
ordinary pcoof of tbs hi^ intellectiial

254

Pkynietd SHmce and OkritHm RevtMUm.

culture of our time. Another planet,
Uranus, its next neighbor, had been
long observed to be subject to pertur-
bations, for which no known cause
could altogether account By an
elaborate and wholly independent
calculation of these disturbances, and
a comparison of them with what
would have resulted from all the
known causes of irregularity, two
mathematicians, Leverrier in France,
and Adams in England, were enabled,
nearly at the same time, and quite un-
known to each other, to say where the
disturbing cause must be, and what
must be the conditions of its action.
They communicated with practical
astronomers, and told them where
they ought to find a new planet ; tele-
scopes were directed to the spot, ac-
curate star-maps were consulted, and
there it was, the newly discovered
planet Neptune, wandering through
space, in an orbit of nearly three
thousand millions of miles' semi-di-
ameter. Other discoveries had been
the result of good fortune, or the reward
of patient accuracy and untiring per-
severance ; here discovery was antici-
pated, and directed by the conclusions
of purely mathematical reasoning.

The nineteenth century, little more
than half elapsed, can also point with
satisfaction to numerous observatories
in both hemispheres, where, in nightly
vigils and daily calculations, the accu-
mulating observations and details are
amassed and arranged, which for years
to come are to guide die mariner through
the patliless seas, and to furnish ma-
terials for future generalization in re-
gard to the laws of the physical uni-
verse ; where untiring account is kept
of those occult and variable magnetic
influences which permeate the surface
of our globe and the atmosphere around
it, to which tlie distinguished Hum-
boldt first urged attention, and in the
investigation of which the names of
Kater aiul Sabine are conspicuous.
In chemical laboratories at home, and
on the continent, the progress of in-
vestigation into the internal constitu-
tkNi «f matter is so exteosiva and so

fruitful in results, that ai
lately informed by an emine
it is hardly possible even fo
sional man to keep up to th
weekly discovery. The tr
steam-power in connexion wi
eTj\ the perfection attained
engineering, and the multip
its resources; the wonder
produced by the combinatioi
sion of labK>r, illustrated b^
pletion of vast works, and '
of n^aterials for our world-
merce ; and, not least of a
plication of the electric cur
transmission of messages,
suggested by a Scotsman, i
1753,* and perfected by T
and others, the influence of
flashing intelligence from o
the world to the other, is no
bly destined to act more |
than that of steam and rai
munication, on the future !
mankind; all these valuabl
during evidences of the sci(
eminence of our age, are m
erable or unreasonable cause
and self-congratulation an
temporary philosophers. T
was a time when juster vie
subject of phvsical science '
generally diffused among the
ty at large ; when a readiei
be gained for any new and
ported claims of science ;
public mind thirsted more c
fresh draughts from the fo
knowledge ; or when more
persons were engaged in
means for satisfying this
thirst Scientific societies a
ous and active ; mechan
tutes, philosophical associati
nasums and other reuni<
kindred nature, are orgai
flourishing in every large to
country, for the purpose o
ing a little rill of this covet
edge to the tradesmen am
in the short intervals of t
toiL The very credulity n

• Sat SooU MifitlM, fttewry.

JPklfneal Science and ChrieUan Revelation.

255

unscientific and preposteroos
!s of motion have been lately
kd and believed by multitudes
cated persons, and which Far-
bas the merit of first boldly
)cing, is another proof of the
of something new in phys-
lich animates large masses of
ig men, and which is oflen much
ieveloped than their power of
uishing what is true from what
', or empirical, in the philosophy
ire.

contemplation of this picture

nineteenth century suggests a

o of some moment : What is

ation of this scientific develop-

revelation? What influence
cely to have on the conclusions

1 ? A simple mind, or a simple
oeives these implicity : will the
ce of science on either dispose,
iposc it, to similar confidence ?
idem discoveries likely to throw
oable doabt on the province of
ion ; or are they more likely to
light upon it, and establish its
iks?

is a question of the last mo-
The age is bent on acquiring
dge ; it is justly elated by its
« in search of this precious
nd, all the while, its depend-
i the great truths of revelation
less than that of a simple age.
If ever necessary, is not less so
an when all the brilliant discov-
' our era lay in the folds of the
dme. They will not, with all
rilliancy, direct and save one
lool, or illuminate the obscure
which lies beyond the grave,
loe must fiissolve the charm of
ilas I for the elation of our age
nm high attainments ; better
isen for it that the ancient ig-
} of physical laws had never
isipated, than that its disper-
Mild have been so dearly pur-

Nirse, by revelation, the author

\ oDderatood to mean the whole

Grod, revealed to the world,

H^ bj the GWtholio Church;

as well that part of it which Protes-
tants reject, as the mutilated part of it
which the greater number of them are
agreed in accepting ; all the doctrines
peculiarly and distinctively belonging
to Catholicity, together with others
which it holds and teaches in common
with all calling themselves Christian.
What relation, then, we ask, has the
modem advance of science to this un-
divided sum of revealed truth ? Is it
one of hostility or of harmony, of il-
lustration and confirmation, or of an-
tagonism? Is physical science the
handmaid, or the enemy of faith ?

(1.) Now, a very great number of
persons, understanding revelation in
the sense in which we have defined it,
would answer this question by saying
that science is the enemy of revealed
truth, as maintained by the Catholic
Church ; that the more generally scien-
tific and accurate ideas of the laws and
constitution of the physical universe
are diffused^ the more difficult must
grow the belief of sensible men, claimed
by the Catholic Church for apparently
impossible exceptions to those laws.
We can even imagine some good
Catholics, little versed in scientific
pursuits, of the same opinion, and
therefore jealous of this general crav-
ing of the people for secular know-
ledge. Among the Protestants of this
country it is currently believed that
the Catholic Church is as keenly and
doggedly opposed to science as science
is to her ; that her unchanging policy
has always been to keep her children
in ignorance, so as the more easily to
subdue their intelUgenc3 to her bid-
ding.

(2.) An answer of a different kind
we should expect to receive from a
numerous class of friends, and from a
few opponents; namely, that the re-
lation of science to revelation is one
of indifference, as they belong to
spheres of knowledge totally distinct
and independent. A few remarks on
each of these answers will best intro-
duce the anthor^s own attempt at a
solution of the question.
Ajs to the first: weU^informed and

256

Fkysical Science and Christian SevdaHon.

candid inquiFers into the truth of
things arc beginning slowly to per-
'ceive that the Catholic Church has
been misrepresented, as invariably
the enemy of science; especially in
the critical and much agitated con-
troversy of the geocentric and helio-
centric theories of the planetary mo-
tions, which has been chosen as the
weakest point of attack. Two writers
of the liigh(."*t eminence in science,
with no rclit^ious bias whatever to-
ward Catholicity, have given re-
markable testimony on this subject.
Sir David Brewster in his Life of
Galiloo has adopted a tone of fairness
to the Catholic Church, unhappily
rare in Protestant treatment of such
topics in general. We do not think
he has done full justice to Galileo's
Roman judges ; but, at least, he has
given the Roman i>ontiffs «ome credit
for their patronage of men of science.
We recommend the whole life to the
notice of our readers, and shall cite
the following ]>assage from it. After
mentioning tlio pcMision granted to
Galileo by Pope Urban VIli.,in 1G24,
Sir David a<lds : *' The pension thus
given by Urban was not the remuneni-
tion which sovereigns sometimes award
to the services of tlieir subjects. Ga-
lileo was a foreigner at Rome. The
sovertjign of the papal state owed him
no obligation ; and hence we must re-
gard the piMision of Gralileo as a dona-
tion from the Rjman pontiff to science
iticlf, and as a declaration to tlie Chris-
tian world that religion was not jeal-
ous of pliilo<iophy, and that the church
of Rome was willing to respect and fos-
ter even the genius of its enemies."*

The otl»er writer whom we shall
cite is a no less celebrated authority
in science than the present astrono-
mer royal, who, while condemning the
treatment which Galileo received at
the liands of the Roman Inquisition,
is free to mlmit that Rome did not al-
ways oppose science ; and even this
qualified admission, from so eminent a
person, is wortli a good deal to our

• lUnyn of Sdtoce, •d. ISM, p. 68L

purpose. His remark is this : '^Tliis
great step in the explanation of the
planetary motions was made by G»
pemicusy air ecclesiastic in the Boniih
Church, a canon of Thorn, a eitj of
Prussia. The wozk in which he pab-
lished it is dedicated to the pope. At
that time it would appear that there
was no disinclination in the Roxniiih
Church to receive new astronomical
theories. Bat in no long time after,
when Gralileo, a philosopher of Flo*"
ence, taught the same theory, he wii
brought to trial by the Romisfi Churdii
then in fiill power, and was compelled
to renounce the theory, ilow theM
two different courses of the Romiab
Cimrch are to be reconciled, I do not
know. But the fact is so." •

We are not concerned at present
with Gtilileo*s unhappy story, farther
than to remark, that there is as mml
much to be said on the side of his Runum
judges, which is perhaps nowhere ao
well said as in the pages of the Dab-
lin Review, No. IX., July ld3S. The
views there advanced have never been
called in question ; wo may therefore
assume that they are substantially nn-
assaikblc. As to the general qiicstioo
of the assistance which the Catholic
Church h:is lent« directly or indireetl^i
to science, we should like to knov
what other church, or body of eccltti-
astics, has done anything in this field
compared with the Labors and the sll^
cesses of the Society of Jesus alone.
The names of Clavius and Kircberi
of Bosoovich, De Vico, and Piansiani,
may stand for a memorial of the pros-
perous union of science and Catholic
revelation.f

* Alrr'g Lectum on Avtronnmy, p. SSi
t F. Clirli»t4>phcr CUvlu4, a J., an eminent C
mathcmatlcUin an<l Minuiomor, vai rmplopBd tf
Grs(n>ry XII L in the reformation of the ratffli*
Hit Ori^rlan CulenJar, publltbed in l.V«l, VM tV"
(Illy adopted in l>rateiitant countries, and wm R^
Lite^ oar system of leap-years. Ills collected wtt^
nMtical aud ncientlflc worki amoant to flre i
folio. He 1

F. AthADA*!
many, Wiu a dlllfccnt calllvator of .«^..«~ -,
works. In tirenty-tiro folio and elertn quarto i<^
ume«, imibruct.' leirned and orlicinal treatlsetenBitf
recondite branchoi* of physical scieooe; m wf
neUim, Optics, AcoiMtics, Geography, etc.. He ■*
filled the chair of XUthematict In Vbm Jwolt IflMiB
OoUege, and laid the fimadatlon oT tta fStaHin Mi

s was kllletl in 1612, aged IX

mn^liH Kirvher, S. J., also a natlvt flC C^

JPkgmeal Sciene^ and Ckntiian Hevtlaiian.

857

to the second solution of our
Q — that science and revelation
lifferent, because entirely dis-
to each other in nature and
; it appears to us that analogy
quite the other way. For, (1.)
oth have a common origin in
I of God ; and it is not unrear
\ to expect that they shall ex-
xne traces of common princi-
And this, especially, if we di«
ir attention to the difficulties
lie in the way of our accept-
f the conclusions proposed to
either; if they are actually
9 resemble each other in many
e, their rektion can no longer
sidercd one of indifference,
m the principles on which
iseph Butler constructed his
il worky if revealed truth pro-
tom the author of nature, we
pect to find the same difficul-
it as we find in nature. And,
ely, it is no objection to the
»rigin of revealed truth, that
eption implies difficulties as
s the acceptance of the facts
's of nature presupposes us to
rercome. And, (2.) we may
lom the mutual analogy of

OMiisi. He dUd tX Rome, in 1680, at the

JoMph BoteoTieh, & J., a native of Raffoia,
diair of Aitromony in the Jesuit Roman
tbiiij yean, and was highly dlstingukhed
Ih, orlftnality, and variety of his acquire-
atnial PhUoeophy. He publbhed seTeral
reatlsev on the philosophy of Newton, on
. He is best known out of Italy for his
Kbewy of the molecular constitution of
ft eo ry which the increasing knowledge of
m philosophy has only oonOnned. After
■loo of his order in 1 T78, he was welcomed
Ml tanght philosophy there tor a time :
lag to Italy, he died at Milan, in 1787,

DO, a J., was also an eminent astronomer
t Roman OoUrge. His discoTery of several
oteeed liim to the circle of men of sdenee.
(•soils were driven trom Rome in 1848, he
td with open arms in the United States ;
pUj Jbr science, he died In London a very
Igo, whUe procuring instruments for hb
riatbefkrWest. He was highly esteemed
d Iqr Ua pnpils, of whom there are many
itoy.

iam, & J., for many yean tanght cheaiis-
Jantt Roman OoUcge. He is admired
■pHdty of his mannen no less thsn
■able oootributloiis he has made to the
4 cfaemioal science. Besides a larger
- - — ^se on It. he has pablUhed a
Bogonj or " —

- . ^ Moeea ; and, we be-

ll pnparlng other treatlMt for the

TOL. IT. li

Other sciences to one another; how
dissimilar soever they appear to a
superficial observer to be, there is a
community of principles, and of gen-
eral laws, which bmds them toge&er,
and connects them with their common
origin in the divine mind. This idea
is, as many of our readers are aware,
beautifully developed by Mrs. Somer-
viile in her charming work on the
Ck>nnezion of the Physical Sciences.

From these preliminary remarks,
the author^s own solution of the ques-
tion of hostility, or indifference, be-
tween science and revelation may be
gathered ; namely, that though in their
nature, objects, and details widely sepa-
rated, yet they are linked together by
a thousand delicate ties, unperceived
by a careless observer, but well repay-
ing elaborate study. Science is the
true handmaid of Revelation, doing
service to the superior nature, but ex-
hibiting tokens of a commission to do
so, imparted to her by the divine creator
of both. The author has devoted some
attention to this interesting subject;
and at some future time, if granted
health and leisure, he hopes to state
and illustrate his views more at large,
and in a more permanent form ; mean-
while he proposes briefly to sketch
some of the conclusions and trains of
thought suggested to him by these stud-
ies ; confining his remarks entirely to
those portions of revealed truth which
are the exclusive property of the Catho-
lic Church, and which are generally
known in the Protestant world as po-
pish doctrines, such as the Blessed
Eucliarist ; the question of Miracles in
general ; and all that is supernatural
and imperceptible to the senses in
Catlkohc behef.

L A preliminary difficulty lying in
the way of belief in the supernatural
character of revealed religion, is the
flat contradiction which it apparently
gives to the evidence of the senses ,
the manifest discrepancy between what
is alleged and proposed to our belief,
and what is seen with our eyes, and
appredatod by otfier seDsuoos ofgana.

t58

F^lfiteci S ei m^M and Okrittkm

Modem science, boweTer, is as inex-
orable in ber demands on boman cre-
dence, in defiance of tbe senses, as
was ever revelation on tbe assent of
fidtb. Tbe senses baye tbeur empire
macb restricted by tbe canons of oar
pbilosopbers. For, (1.) it is ftilly es-
tablisbed tbat eacb organ of sense is
susceptible of one class of impressions
only, wbicb it passes on to the senso-
rium, or seat of tbongbt. Tbos tbe
organ of vision admits and communi-
cates impressions of ligbt alone ; tbat
of bearing, impressions of sound, or
of tbe wave of air set in motion by
tbe cause producing sound, and no
others. Tbe organs of taste and smelL
in like manner, have their own classes
of susceptibilities, which, again, are
not the same as those belonging to
the nerves of touch. For every other
dass of impressions than its own, each
organ of sense is absolutely inert and
useless. Tbe eye can take no cogni-
sance of sound, nor the ear of ligbt : if
tbe eye can feel a touch, it is because
certain parts of its structure are fur-
nished with branches of the nerves of
touch ; and so of the rest. Electricity
alone seems to have the remarkable
power of exciting in all the organs of
sense, sensations proper to the nature
of each; in the eye, for example, a
flash of light ; distinct sounds ; a phos-
phoric odor, a peculiar taste, and a
pricking feeling, in the same person
at the same time.* Again, (2.) sensa-
tions arising from those impressions
are so exceedingly complex, that we
attribute many more of them to each
separate sense than really belong to it
By habit we have become so much
accustomed to associate several of
those impressions together, as to be
unable, without difficulty, to analyze
them, and to separate the simple re-
sults of the sensuous impression from
tbe more complicated judgments which
experience and reason add to it, and
by which they interpret it. The eye,
for example, receives and conveys im-
pressions purely and solely of light,

* SoomcrrUle*! CoqimxIoii, «ta, | zxlz. p. 880.
Oupwlw*! IfMiaal of Phjrtiolonr, | MS.

and its abseoce, including th
color, which belong to light
extensioii, sense of distance, e
no part of tbe simple imy
made upon tbe eye, and tbn
upon tbe mind, further than t
fluence the condition of the ]
by bounding it, shading it, etc
belong exdusively to tbe sc
touch, combined with experie
as to be suggested, without act
tact^ by certain conditions d
An inexperienced eye, lookii^
first time at a plain surface, ai
or at a cube, or a ball, would i
tbe color, and the edges wIh
changed. It could not ena
mind to judge bow far tbe obji
distant ; nor why tbe light am
were d^erently disposed in eac
tbe light refiected from tbe d
uniform, and bounded by a cird
that from tbe ball was sofUy
though bounded by a circular li
ilar to the disc; nor why tl
coming from the cube was dlvii
bounded by straight lines aw
angles. To judge of these pc
ties, and their meaning, tone
come to the aid of sight; am
ward memory will re^dl tbe
sions of former experience ; ai
parison will enable tbe re
mind to form a judgment re
the shape, size, and distance
object In a similar manner,
gans of hearing convey impres
sound alone; distance, directi
citing cause, are quite out of tl
ince of its information. Sig
touch, and experience and joi
all enter into the complex infin
now communicated to a practt
server. This fact is strikingly
lified in musical sounds. A
musician will tell you the iw
chords composing a aeries <
sounds, in wbicb an uninfom
unpractised ear will be able
tcct nothing but concord or i
Thus Mozart, at two heario
able to note down tbe score c
gri's Miserere. Thus, too, th
many substances whUh we ji

JHyjioflf &i§m» omd CkridUm Sirnddiim,

S59

B, as U is supposed, bat which
reality operative on the sense
L For instance, if the nose is
lite eating cinnamon, we shall
6 no dirorence between its
and that of a pine shaving.*
ne &ct is observed with regurd
J aromatic substances : if held
mouth, or rubbed between the
and the palate, the nostrils be-
the while dosed, their taste is
if at all, recognised ; but it is
ately perceived on reopening
Bal passages. Thus, too, the
8ter closes his mouth, and
he aroma of the wloe through
toils. Other substances, again,
le, neither aromatic nor vola-
ose taste very strongly irritates
sous membrane both of nose and
as mustard does, for example,
I it would the skin, if applied
00^ externally. Such a sen-
therefore, as the taste of mus-
idently belongs to the organs
h, differing in degree of sensi-
dly. Hence we are taught that
iMtances properly the objects
lense of taste, are those only
produce sensations purely and
rely gustative, perceived net-
trough the nose nor through
res of touch, but acting on the
and palate only. Salt, sugar,
, tannin, and citric acid, types
aline, saccharine, bitter, astrin-
id sour, are said to possess sa-
iperties.t From these simple
lations it appears undoubted
) province of each separate or-
lensation, and its resultant im-
iis on the mind, are much lim-
len compared with the wider

attributed to them by popular
(S and opinion. Reason is ever
ng and enlarging the simple
son, adding the conclusions of
nee and judgment and com-

to the primary suggestions of
ration ; making allowances for

fiuilty or imperfect; measnr-

mA Dbooone on the SUidy of Nalaral
tf^MMBtf ofFkyilologj, | M&

ing circumstances, and comparing all
the conditions of the impression with
each other, before even an approxi-
mately true result can bo arrived
at

Further (3.) there is much in na-
ture of which the senses totally &il in
giving us any information whatever.
'^None of the senses," says Sir J.
Herschel, ^ gives us direct information
for the exact comparison of quantity.
Number, indeed, that is to say, inte-
ger number, is an object of sense,
because we can count ; but we can
neither weigh, nor measure, nor form
any precise estimate of fractional parts
by the unassisted senses. Scarcely
any man could tell the difference be-
tween twenty pounds, and the same
weight increased or diminbhed by a
few ounces ; still less could he judge
of the proportion between an ounce of
gold and a hundred grains of cotton
by balancing theift in his hands."*
Nay, even in their own proper and
peculiar province, the senses are sin-
gularly deficient in certain kinds of in-
formation, especially when comparison
is involved. "The eye," says the
same high authority, " is no judge of
the proportion of different degrees of
illumination, even when seen side by
side ; and if an interval elapses, and
circumstances change, nothing can be
more vague than its judgment When
we gaze with admiration at the gor-
geous spectacle of the golden clouds at
sunset, which seem drenched in light,
and glowing like flames of real fire, it
is hardly by an effort we can persuade
ourselves to regard them as the very
same objects which at noonday pass
unnoticed as mere white clouds bask-
ing in the sun, only participating, from
their great horizontal distance, in the
ruddy tint which luminaries acquire
by shining through a great extent of
the vapor of the atmosphere, and
thereby even losing something of their
light So it is with our estimates of
time, velocity, and all other matters of
quantity; they are absolutely vague

• DitoowM OB th« Slodj of NalanU PliUoioplky,
f 117.

260

Fl^fiieai Scime§ tmd Okriiiiam AmjoImw.

and inadequate to form a foundation
for any exact conclusion/' •

Again (4.) there is a large class of
phenomena whose causes, and even
whose existence, are far too remote or
too minute to be revealed to us by our
senses. What are telescopes and
microscopes, but the means which
science ingeniously devises to supply
this innate and irreparable deficiency
of our organs of sei^e ? Satirists of
the middle age, and its soholatic phi-
losophers, have said that they would
dispute as to the number of spirits that
could dance on the point of a needle.
Modem science shows us, in the infu-
soria, animals of perfect formation,
endowed with functions suited to their
condition, many thousands of which
could pass at once through the eye of
the finest needle; a million of which
would not amount in bulk to a gitiin
of sand. No less wonderful is the
world of minute existence, revealed by
the microscope, in a drop of stagnant
water. It is a world within itself, an
epitome of the earth, and its succ^sive
geological races. A variety of micro-
scopic creatures make their appear-
ance, and die ; in a few days, a new
set succeeds ; these disappear in their
turn, and their place is occupied by a
third race, of a different kind from
either of the former — ^the remains
of all of them lying at the bottom
of the glass.t " If for a moment,*'
says Humboldt, ^we could yield to
the power of fancy, and imagine the
acuteness of our visual organ to be
made equal to the extreme bounds of
telescopic vision, and bring together
that which is now divided by long
periods of time, the apparent rest
which reigns in space would suddenly
disappear. We should see the count-
less hosts of fixed stars moving in
thronged groups, in different direc-
tions ; nebulas wandering through
space, and becoming condensed and
dissolved like clouds, the veil of the
milky way separated and broken up

* DUcoane on tiie Biudy of Nataral Pbllosophj,
$117. *^

t SooierTiUc'a PhyBleal Qcofnphj ; IL, zxxU.
848, note.

in many parts, and motioii
supreme in every portion of tbc
of heaven, even as on the earth
face, where we see it unfolded
germ, the leaf, and tlie blosao
organisms of the vegetable
The celebrated Spanish botani
vanilles, was the first who entej
the idea of ^seeing the grass
He directed the horizontal micr
threads of a powerful magnifyin
at one time to the apex of the s
a bambusa, and at another, (
rapidly growmg stem of an An
aloe, precisely as the astro
places his cross of network i
a culminating star." • Withoo
ulating so deeply in what is •
and hidden, the very atmosph
which we live and breathe is
ceptible to every one of our i
except, indeed, when viewed ti
its whole depth, to that of sight
blue color of the sky, or indire
that of touch, by the resistance
it offers to the hand, or the fi
passing rapidly through it, or f
is set in motion by the wind. ^
ceive its effects, indeed, in the i
cations which the phenomena a
and sound undergo, in conseqni
its action upon them ; in the b
trie column, and in a thousand
physical and chemical agencies
attest the presence of tbe atmoi
and the important functions w
performs in our terrestrial eoo
But as far as sight or hearing
or smell, are affected by it, dire
has absolutely no existence.

Modem science, indeed, com
the aid of the senses, can enaUt
to attain the results of an aim
conceivable acuteness. Thar
quantity and comparison are ia
ciable, or nearly so, by the n:
organs of sense, balances htm
constructed with a sensibility
quisite, as to turn with the thoo
part of a grain, and yet pretem
extraordinary degree of merit.

• Co«Dot,L, 189,140.
t llenchel's Discoone on
l>hU0M|»h7, |88S.

tte mmorm

i%i»ea{ Sei€He$ and OkrMan RmkUttimu

S61

of an instrament called a
ter, which subsdtates the
toQch for that of sight, an
bo divided into twenty thou-
B ; and the lever of contact,
nent in use among the Ger-
ians, enables them to appre-
intities of space even yet

Instruments have been de-
able of measaring intervals
jqual to the tt?7t part of a
By the revolution of a tooth-
» striking against a piece of

human ear is enabled to
3 a sound which lasts only
F a second, and thus to
that extremely minute in-
time-t Wheatstone, in the
his experiments on the ve-
the electric fluid, constructed
Eitus which enables the eye
e an interval equal to less

,T7T

of a second of time.

t value of this almost infini-
iterval was ascertained and

by the known effect of a
ligh pitch upon the ear.} It
Bsary to multiply such ex-
rat so many we have adduc-
e purpose of demonstrating
: of the world of physical ob-
which lies forever conceal-
he natural organs of sense.
his knowledge of their inca-

more than a very limited
Dbservadon to the inventions
r applied to remedy and sup-
his very incapacity. Thus
Us tales against the human

which a less inventive and
age could never have even

lore, (5.) the senses are not
cted in their sphere of action,
ible of penetrating beyond a
lit into the mysteries of phys-
s, but even within their own
x>vince of observation their
I are constantly false and
; so that if we were implicit-
ive and adopt these indica-

• Dttcoone oo th« Study of Natural

sas.

)m*% OonnezUn, «tc^ | ztL p. 147.
tSL p. SSL

tions, without due correction, our no-
tions of the constitution of nature would
be singularly wide of the truth. A3
they appear to the naked eye, the sun
and moon seem nearly of the same
size ; flat discs, about as large as the
crown of a hat. Uncorrected sense
teaches us no more; it furnishes no
means of measuring either their abso-
lute or their relative distance. But
from other sources, ,we learn that one
is about four hundred times further off
than the other ; that the mass of the
one would fill a space bounded by
double the orbit of the other ; and that
the centre of the sun is nearly half a
million of miles nearer our eye than
his limb, or the bounding line of his
disc, a space equal to more than twice
the distance of the moon from the
earth. The limits prescribed to him-
self, forbid the author to enlarge on
this interesting portion of his subject,
which, however, he regrets the less,
that any one anxious to follow it out,
will find an excellent paper on << Popu-
lar Fallacies/' in Lardner's Museum
of Science and Art, January 1854 ; a
new scientific and popular serial, which
has started under the best auspices,
and deserves to be widely circulated.

Did space permit, wo might illus-
trate the fallacious teaching of the
senses regarding the phenomena of
nature, by the corrections made ne-
cessary in every scientific observation,
as to the position of distant objects, in
consequence of the refraction or bend-
ing of the rays of light in their passage
through the air, which has the effect
of making distant objects in space seem
higher than they really are; of the
correction necessary for the aberration
of light, depending on the time taken
to transmit it from a distant object in
space ; together with others which en-
ter into the daily experience of the
observers of nature. Other circum-
stances also materially influence the
impressions conveyed through the or-
gans of sense. Thus a person going
into an ordinarily lighted apartment
from the dark night, will be painfully
affected by the brightness of the light

Fl^ineal ScimH!$ and OMMmi

for a few momenta ; while another, en-
tering the same room from a brightlj
illuminated chamber, will hardlj be
able for a moment or two to see any-
thing.* If we plunge our hands one
into ice-cold water, and the other into
water as hot as it can be borne, and
after letting them stay a while, sudden-
ly transfer them both to a vessel full
of water at blood heat, the one will feel
it hot, and the other cold. If we cross
the two first fingers of our hand, and
place a pea in the fork between them,
moving and rolling it about on a table,
we shall be fuUy persuaded, especially
if we close our eyes, that we have two
peas.t The other senses are similarly
affected by circumstances, so as to con-
vey erroneous impressions. Mrs. Som-
erville sums up the evidence on this
head in one word, when she remarks
that, << a consciousness of the fallacy of
our senses is one of the most important
consequences of the study of nature.
This study teaches us that no object is
seen by us in its true place.'' I And
elsewhere she adds, ^' A high degree of
scientific knowledge has been necessary
to dispel the errors of the senses ."§
Herschel has the following remark
in his Outlines of Astronomy I : ^ No
geometrical figure, or curve, is seen
by the eye as it is conceived by the
mind to exist in reality. The laws of
perspective interfere and alter the ap-
parent directions, and foreshorten the
dimensions of its several parts. If the
spectator be unfavorably situated, as,
for instance, nearly in the plane of the
figure, they may do so to such an ex-
tent as to make a considerable effort
of imagination necessary to pass from
the sensible to the real form."

There is one form of illusion to
which the senses are liable, so remark-
able and irremediable as to deserve a
moment's notice; we mean their er-
roneous testimony regarding motion.
We have the authority of Sir. J. Her^
bchel for saying, that ^ there is no pecu-

* Carpent«r*s Manaal of Phrtiolosy, $ 98i,
t Henchel*9 Ditcoune, | 73.

iCoouceiloa of Phjttcal S d eo c w , | xxr. p. Mi.
lb., $ It. p. ST.

liar sensation which adver
we are in motion. The rou
ties in the road are felt as wi
over them, by the suocessi*
and falling of the carria|
have no sense of progrea
prevented from seeing sun
jects. The smoother tin
the faster the speed, the h
we to feel our motion forwa
one must have felt this in
elling by the railway, or i
In a balloon, with a ste
which merely propels, with
or oscillation, the motion i
as a sensation of perfect
same is observed on shipb(
water or a calm. Everytl
as if on land."* To comp
sion, nothing is more coi
apparently to transfer our
to the stationary objects
This is peculiarly obscrva
way stations, when a train
moves off If another trs
ing near, and parallel to o<
impossible to tell which is ;
own, or the other in an
rectioii, without calling in
a third object, to correct t
or erroneous impression, t
tion in which it seems i
change its place ; or by ex
wheels of the other trai
same way, many persons,
nessing a panorama, are \
fected by the shifting of
which conveys to them ao
as if the room were going
the picture remaining sta
was this illusion of the f
motion, that perpetuated U
date the capital error re
supposed circulation of tl
planets round the unmoviu]
dispelling of which, by
subsequent observers, was
triumph ever achieved bj
over the empire of the sen
The simple matter of
that our senses were giv
certain definite and pract

• OotUoMorAflroiionj,!

Bom§ ai ZatL S68

be acqnisitkm of universal know- enter. Catholic doctrine, therefore, is

s. We use them thankfuUj with- in no worse position, as regards the

leir own domain, hut we should contradiction ofthe senses to its results,

)j inferring that their indications than is the great mass of scientific

be measure of the true, or of the knowledge ; to deny the one is as un-

e constitutioii of things: their philosophical as to deny the other,

liog falls far short of what exists merely because the organs of sense

le universe of material nature; fail to appreciate it, or afford indica-

the world of spiritual existence tions directly contrary to it
operation they have no mission to

HOME AT LAST. ^

Thet gathered 'round the dying stranger^s bed,
They heard his words^ yet knew not what he said —
^'Ohl take me homer

With earnest looks they pressed his feverish hand,
And sorely grieved they could not understand —
^Oh I take me home!"

The busy host forgot his clamoring guests.
Wistful to answer thb of all requests —

«0h! take me home!"

The good-wife scanned the stranger*s pallid face,
And wept. But to his meaning found no trace ;
" Oh I take me home I"

The hostess' fair-haired daughter stood apart,
** What can he mean V she asked her beating heart ;
*^0h! take me home !"

** Whence had he come ? His name P* None knew. " And yet
He speaks in tones I never can forget —

''Oh! take me home!"

With timid step she softly neared the bed,
And took his hand. The stranger raised his head,
And deeply sighed.

Weeping, she sang a simple, childish rhyme.
He smiled and said: ^ Jetzt bin ich endlich heim !" *
And then he died.

•lamhomtatlMl

Tke Oid OmL

Translated from the Atadea Raligleiiaea, HiaUirlqiiea ei LttOrairea.

THE ♦old owl.

When I was living in my native
village, about twenty years ago, T
made the acquaintance of an old owl
who lived in one of my forests. One
of my forests I say, and with good rea-
son ; for% was the only being who
could appreciate ^hem, although a few
landed proprietors in the town were
wont to make clearings therein, on the
plea of having bou|Jit them and .paid
down certain moneys in the presence
of our notary public. Therefore in
my forest dwelt my owl, who was a
personage of mature years, and had
first attracted me by the singular simi-
larity of his tastes and opinions with
mine. Our first meeting took place
under rather peculiar circumstances.
One evening, after belaboring my brains
over some enigmatical Persian verses
for hours, I left the house, still conning
over an enigmatical hemistich ; and
strolling on until I gained the edge of
the forest, plunged in without noticing
whither I went. I might have wander-
ed about all night, lost in the mazes
of this mysterious satire, had not the
sweet odors of a cherry tree in full
blossom attracted my attention, pene-
trating through the olfactory nerves to
the inmost recesses of my brain ; even
to the bump of pedantry itself. This
brought me to myself; and astounded
to see how far I had wandered at that
late hour, I turned to go home at once ;
but the tangled path and deepening
shadows threw me into confusion, and
at the end of a quarter of an hour I
found myself completely lost. ** Never
mind," said I, yielding graoefuUy to
circamstances, ^Uhis is just what I
meant to do ;" so on I plunged, through
brake and thicket, until I reached the
oonfines of the forest, where an ancient
nnned cadde firowned down npon the

valley, with my little village
at its feet I sat down by oi
towers to rest, but had hard
one long breath, when there
flapping of wings about my 1
raising my eyes I belield — >
horrendum — an owl. He fl<
left of me, fanning my cheek
heavy grey wings. Supersl
an ancient, I turned instincti
he might be on my right
dreadful seemed the omen ; bi
had I yielded to this involui
pulse, when good breeding wi
that the self-love of the poo
might be wounded; — for an
feelings as well as orher peop
I was mistaken, he replied t*
suit only with a disdainful la^
perching himself on the toj
tower, glared at me out of his
with an expression of profouu

The laugh irritated me ; a
wishing to recover his rcspeci
ble, (and here in parentheses
that this narrative is addrcssc
those who maintain that anir
not speak, but to sympatheti
who enjoy the singing of bir
woods, and understand the
terious language ; who know '
rious emotions their songs
who listen, in short, with rev«
the accents of nature and re
them ; — to such of these we
authentic tale, begging th<
herd to withdraw from the au

Then I said to the owl
pardon my silly rudeness ;
ly obeyed an instinctive
without the least intention o
ing you; on the contrary,
rcAlly grieve me if you doa
high esteem in whi^^h I hold ]

«< Whereas the good of ei

Thi Old Owi.

865

shaidDg }u8 head ; ^ if joa

h to serve me, take youi-self

tave me in peace."

aot go," said I, ^mitil yon

y offence."

if I did pardon yon,'* re-

e, " what use would it be ?

no such thing. I cannot
3U for being a man, or for
3. Begone ! you are a mis-
B the rc3t of your kind."
ire a miscreant yourself!"
^ " and very unjust and dis-
boot, I never injured the
creature — ^I have been the

defender of birds* nests
ildren and fowlers. I have
he contempt of mankind by
-errantry. At least I ought
ted with common civility by
m I have loved and pro-
ell I well! weU!" said he,
any more about it You are

1 seem to be well-meaning
I will trust you and rue the
Q at my leisure."

rast have been unfortunate,"
ed respectfully, "to have
listrustfuL"

8 that to you?" he an-
ortly ; "my wretched story
u no good if you are dcs-
tmain innocent ; and if you
ome like other men, it will
you."

said I, thinking to tickle hts
i neatly turned compliment,
teach me wisdom and pru-
Tiat less could I learn from
e of Minerva and the pro-
.thens ? " But my Timon's
ys proof against assault, and

link probably to flatter me,
er knew the goddess you
She was, I am told, an ex-
torbulent person, continual-
ing and setting her heroes
I. And what were the Athe-
i set of firiyolous, chattering
leapable of forming a sound ,
f potting it in execution if

^Yoa seem to have a greac con-
tempt for mankind," said I, rather
abashed at the failure of my little
compliment. "What has shaken
your faith in us, if I might venture to
ask?"

" That is a long story," answered
he ; " but I will tell it to you one of
these days if you and death can wait
so long."

"Why not now? Everything is
at rest ; even the squirrels are sound
asleep, coiled up in the beech boughs,
unmindful of you and me."

** No, no," said he snappishly, " I'm
too tired to think now. Besides, I
don't know you, nor what you would
be at with your teasing questions. Go ^
away and let me alone."

Fearing to vex him further and
rouse his suspicions, I bade him good-
by and retreated, promising to return
the following night. The next even-
ing, just after sunset, I turned my
steps toward the forest, and heard as
I drew near the tower my poor hermit
shooting out into the darkness his dis-
mal cry houloulou I houloulou ! which
was answered by a dreary echo.

" Poor old soul !" said I to myself,
" it is frightful even to hear him, his
cries are so full of hatred, menace,
and irony. Either he is wicked oi^— **
but I was standing at the foot of the
tower and the voice of the solitary
called out: "Oh! is that you? It
never occurred to me that you would
be so punctual. I must confess that
your exactness charms me."

And from that hour the anchorite
and I were bound together by the
strongest friendship. He told me that
from the first he had felt drawn to me
by a singular sympathy, but had vig-
orously resisted the attraction for fear
of fresh disappointment His words
shocked me by their harshness, but
our disputes were always friendly and
his rebukes were administered with a
fatherly tenderness which touched me
extremely.

" But," said I one evening, " what
would become of society if we adopt-
ed your maxims ? The noblest Mend*

see

Tke Old OmL

ship, the most heroic devotioQ, would
be bat deceitful snares. We should
see in our companions only knavery,
hjrpocrisj, and treachery beneath a
fiur outside. And at this moment you
are not in harmony with your theo-
ries, for you are confiding in me with-
out dreaming that while I speak to
you I may be planning your ruin and
. destruction."

He smiled, and I believed him con-
vinced ; but a moment after the dole-
ful theme was resumed, and he was
preaching his lamentable doctrines as
if I had not interrupted him.

" You are sincere and perhaps even
virtuous now," he said. '' But that is
no more than your duty, so you de-
serve no credit. I am so old in ex-
perience that sometimes my wisdom
seems to have been bought with every
drop of blood in my veins, and with
every hope of happiness. Now, this
is the fruit of my experience, which I
will give you, and you can digest it at
your leisure. Have no friends — live
by yourself — ^never marry — live in a
village rather than in a city, and in a
forest rather than in either. You
laugh, but let me tell you that it is no
laughing matter, as you will find when
you know the world as well as I do ;
and you will know it one of these
days, when experience has come too
soon and deadi too late for your
prayers."

So spake the misanthrope, and I re-
plied: '^We must take men as they
are and life as we find it ; remember-
ing that other people's faults are soon-
er seen than our own, and that they
have as much reason to shun us as
we have to despise them. Grod made
us to live with our fellow-creatures,
and if each person followed out your
dismal precepts the world would be-
come a vast solitude — a living tomb
to engulf humanity."

^AJas! young man!" was his
mournful reply, and it was only by
dint of entreaty that I at last discov-
ered the grounds of his grief and dis-
appointment One beautiful evening
lie told me his stoiy. The forest was

radiant with a ranset glow ;
little birds were hopping al
building their nests in the bn
the trees, twittering and singii
fulness of their joy*

^' I was bom," said he, ** in
place where I live to-day, foi
illusion, the supreme consolat
I have left, is a love of mj
land. I was hatched in that o
old tower yonder covered wi
and ivy. My two brothers c
the world with me, and it was
of ours that we would go
life together, always sacnfic
vate interest to mutual ha
promises suited to infancy i
tined to be forgotten before y<
fled.

" We were the pride of our
hearts, and as we grew fron
day our mother gloried in
and beauty— our father in i
cied promise we gave of
and virtue. One day, when
grown old enough to take a li
of ourselves, our pai^nts a
these words to us :' In anothe
little ones, you will need our
longer, and will enter boldly u
Now listen to our direction!
should die before you are old
to take care of yourselves, ^
neighbor, the old owl, who hv
oak that was struck by lightn
year, and who comes to see y<
times. He will be father and
in one to you, if a parentis p
be supplied.' And another ]
advice: never let a silly •
prompt you to leave this woo<
in search of new places. Bej
forest you would find treach
fortune, and death. Now n
remember our words when w
ken from you, and never fo
father and mother who have k
so dearly.'

^ All this made us cry so
that we could hardly spea
words had a dreadful sound,
we did not know what thej
' What was it all about V tho
and yet with a sense of dreai

The Old Owl.

997

ire promiced with tean to fbl-
eir advice. We pledged oar-
to eyeryUiing, and thought our
unimpeachable — for childhood
ch unbounded faith in itself,
irents rejoiced in our docility,
r several days our happy life
ed unclouded.

3 evening they went out as usual
Ibod for us afler saying good-
j tenderly. For a long time
aited their return in vain, and
!ep at last worn out with watch-
i listening. When we awoke

4 not come back, and we asked
bar in terror if this could be the
separation they had spoken ot
ios rang with our cries, and the
I echo sounded to our excited
ke the laugh of some mysterious

Then hunger came to add
nisery to our sufferings ; and I
p my mind that 1, as the eldest,
and to sacrifice myself to save
le brothers. Telling them to
) their courage and wait for me
y^I threw myselt* boldly out of
t and fiew off in search of the
nd of my mother and father,
p of all sorts of landmarks, I
ed at last m finding the shatter-
bat he, alas I was not there ;
mbling with fatigue I perched
on a bough to wait in dumb
ion for whatever might come
A few hours had taught me
tierest lesson, and I felt a cen-
ter than the day before. At
bongiy and tired, and crazy
e( I made my way back to my
ly who were waiting to tell me
WB. Our old friend, our only
ir now, was with them. From
lilage he had seen his two poor
pnrsoed by an eagle and torn
I erael daws. Then he had
ered us and flown to our nest,
(ibodforasalL So my strength
lored, and I awoke once more
dl vigor of life and suffering.
he fint anguish of grief pass^
i was only to leave room for
ial and disappointment One
wtti in the b^F^nning of June-~

I heard the birds singing in the foliage,
I saw on every side living beings en-
joying life in the great forest, and the
Uiou^t came to me for the first time
that I too might mingle in the festival
of nature. I flew out of the nest and
perched quietly on an oak that stood
at the edge of the glade where all the
little birds had met together for a con-
cert They were listening to a linnet ;
every one was attending in silence to
her joyous notes, and all, even to the
nightingale, were filled with admirar
tion for the pretty songstress. And I
too admired her. I too was penetrated
with love for all these little birds who
looked so kind and good. ' How sweet
it would be to live among them!'
thought I, and I determined to give up
solitude and come with my brothers to
live among them, to be their friend and
admirer. Love seemed so sweet I Ad-
miration of others so ennobling I

^ Such were the thoughts in which I
was luzariating while the linnet's song
lasted. When she ended, I was still
rapt in attention and cried out : * Oh !
how beautiful, how exquisite that is ! '
Hardly were the words uttered when
they discovered me. In an instant I
was surrounded, hustled, assailed, in-
sulted in a thousand discordant voices.

** * An owl I an owl ! Gracious, how
ugly he is ! What a queer sort of a
dUettcmte I Just look at his solemn face
and his great beak I and his great round
eyes ! and hb feathers I He's too liide-
ous — what a fright! There's a cannois-
$eur for you ! Ugh ! the brute !

" ' Let's peck him,' said the gentle
nightingale.

'* ' Yes, yes, hurrah ! let's peck him
well I ' assented the thrush.

" And then they all crowded round
me — nightingales, woodpeckers, lin-
nets, thrushes, blackbirds, tomtits, even
to the turtle doves and wood pigeons
themselves. I felt the strokes of twenty
beaks fall upon me. It was like a
quarry. ' Alas !' thought I, ' can such
cruelty be allied to such genius P And
I struggled wildly, stupefied, panting,
powerless amid the furious rattle. At
hiBt I niooeeded in disengaging myialf

S68

Th$ Old OmL

and flew awaj in desperation to hide
from mj persecutors. Now at last I
knew what evil was, and I asked my-
self, with odd simplicity, joa will say,
if it was not the contrary of go6d. It
was true, then, tis I had heard so often,
that there were wicked beings in the
world I Could it be true ? And while
sach thoughts whirled confusedly
through my unlucky brain, I flew to
confess my defeat to my old friend.

" ' Oh, well ! ' said he, ' I don't blame
you J you yielded to an impulse of
youthful confidence and learned a val-
uable lesson. Do you suppose that I
don't see as well as you that spring is
fair and this forest beautiful, and the
linnef s song enchanting, and that every-
thing bids us be happy ? I know it all
very well, and yet I stay all alone in
my hole while everything outside is
singing and rejoicing. You would not
believe my words, perhaps you will
believe your own experience. You
thought there was no wickedness in
the world, only innocence and virtue ?
Well, your ignorance came from a kind
heart, and, alter all you are happier in
being good than your enemies in being
victorious.'

" * But — just heaven I why did nature
make these wretches so beautiful ? or
rather, why did she make such beauti-
ful creatures so wicked ? Why is not
the perverseness of their hearts to be
read on their faces V

" ' Ah, my son, that is a vexed ques-
tion that many persons have agitated
before now, and that no one has suc-
ceeded in solving. Why has nature
made the good ridiculous and the wick-
ed handsome ? The best way is to re-
sign ourselves to what we cannot un-
derstand.'

" * And then/ said I, * they said I was
ugly enough to scare anybody. But
that cannot be true, for 1 look like my
brother', and my brothers — '*

" * No, my son,' answered the her-
mit, smiling sadly, 'no, you are not
ugly ; nothing on earth is ugly except-
ing cruelty and vice. The beautiful
goldfinch, with his ash-colored throat
and yellow wings, was ugly to-day, and

the linnet too, and aU the pretty
birds who tormented yon so. Yei
are hideously agly; their hearl
black as night, lovely thougl
plumage may be that covers tbei

'''Then am I condemned to
my heart to love forever? lA
live alone because there is wickc
around us?'

" ' Alone, always alone,* bean
ed, ' otherwise you will have n
rest nor happiness. But don't
that you have any cause for Ian
tion or complaint on that account
life, once for all, as it really exist
accept reality instead of pursuing
toms. Would you have every o
semble you ? is every creature
the hero of some droam of yours i
I see that you are not cured even

" He was right ; I was not cui
you choose to say so. Of course
to confess that the small birds
wicked, that they were as cruel a
were pretty, and that I must di
and avoid them. But I sought all
of plausible explanations of this
gruity. I said that they had re(
from nature genius instead of ^
and that I had no more right tc
plain of their cruelty than they 1
ridicule my ugliness (for ugly
tainly must be) or my harsh vo»

"And having persuaded mys
the truth of this, I flew away a
myself in the gloomiest part of tl
est, weeping over my lonellnea
deceived hopes. And now my eye
opened to another delusion. 1
society of my two brothers I hai!
ed for consolation in every troob
before long they declared that (n
was too narrow to satisfy their d
and that they must seek their i
elsewhere. In vain did I use ai
brother's right in dissuading thei
this mad design. In vain I ren
them of the fate of our parents w
perished in spite of every possih
caution, and showed them how
more they would be exposed I
throwing themselves in the n
danger. Nothing influenced t
not even the memorj of our tc

Tke OU OwL

269

fidelity, not even anj entreaties
ej would not leave me alone in
fiary solitade. One — ^the joung-
[ huadsomest, my especial favor-
is possessed by some crazy long-
' travel and foreign adventure,
iamed of some land of promise
all would be good and happy ;
the faith of these dreams he left
) day, bidding good-by to his
r, his cradle, and his only friends,
1 search of the Utopia he longed
I never saw him again. Did
the object of his desires ? Did
on the journey ? I know not ;
thing we may be sure of — that
sated him of his wild and ambi-
»pes.

' other brother left me to follow
r-bndned young screech-owl who
Wangled him in her fascinations,
abl^hed himself with her in a
iring wood, but parted from me
housand protestations of eternal
lip and devotion,
d thus I found myself in that
e solitude which my sage friend
XMumended to me — ^left to my-
l my own sad thoughts. I only
at toward evening to look for
id then returned to my gloomy
d left it no more. But isolation,
of making me courageous, only
Ml me more and more with the
IS leading. From the depths of
«at, I used to watch with envy
ety and animation of other birds.
il I dreamed of joining in their
or my own experience of their
had taught me to keep at a safe
); but the sight of their enjoy-
id me to believe that I might
Dpanionship quite as agreeable
. leaving my own circle. I
i more and more among the
irit of the forest ; I visited them
* own homes, and counted the
spent with them and their fam-
10 much gained against grief
ness. My most intimate friend-
M with a highly respectable
irlio lived not far from my cas-
. aapedally with a young owl,
rth child of veoeraUe parents

who had known and valued my unhap-
py father. Her sweetness and inno-
cence made her very lovely in my
eyes. What was it to me that her beak
was too hooked, her eyes too hollow,
and her head angular ! beauty is the
form of the ideal, not a material regu-
larity. While autumn lasted I visited
her every day at the hole of her aged
parents, and before long we were bound
together by ties of indestructible love.
In the midst of our happiness winter
separated us. What is winter 1 Why
should this spoil-sport intrude on our
fairest days ? And yet, afker all, nature
has a right to be cruel and mischievous,
since all her children are so! For
several months I was parted from her
whom I loved ; but as soon as spring
returned she became my companion,
and I brought her home to my bower,
which was to serve me now as a nest
and as the cradle of my children.
There we spent blissful days, the hap-
piest perhaps of my life. Soon the
nest was full ; two newly hatched little
ones raised their bald heads, and filled
the air with infantile cries. With .
what solicitude we watched over them !
what care and anxiety we felt for these
darling little creatures! At last we
had the happiness of seeing them open
their eyes and look up at us with that
knowing air of intelligence so enchant-
ing to young parents. I thought that
happiness was restored to me, and that
fate was tired of persecuting me.
' What matters now,' said I, ' the
cruelty of the world and its unjust dis-
dain ? Do I need any other happiness
than this ?

^ It seemed as if we could see the
children grow from day to day, and
their good health, noble mien, and
cheerfnl disposition were fast filling
our cup of happineft to overflowing.
One day their mother went out in
search of food, leaving me to watch
the nest, for they were as yet too
young to be trusted alone. Hour af-
ter hour passed on, and yet she did
not return. I became very uneasy as
I remembered my parents* fate, and at
lasty telling the children to be very

«70

The Old Owl

quiet and pradent, I sallied forth in
search of her. Soon she appeared,
flying toward me at the utmost speed
of her rushing wings. 'At last I
have come,' she cried, Met us be
grateful for mj escape! A falcon
has been chasing me for two hours
past, and I onlj eluded his t>ursuit by
hiding in the hollow of a tree. We
must get back to the children as quick
as possible.' And we hastened back
to the nest. As we approached the
tower, we heard— oh, horror I^harp
cries of pain, and recognized in those
screams the voices of our little ones ;
on we plunged, distracted with fear;
and saw the falcon — it was he — ^rising
up into the air clutching in his horrid
claws one of our children, the little
creature's blood dropping down about
us, while he struggled and cried,
« Mother !— Father !'— and then all
was still, and the fiEdcon sailed away
out of sight.

^ You think that was enough, but not
so. When we reached the nest and
looked for the other one, there we found
\i\^ poor little body stretched on the
wall, torn open with a frightful wound.
What shall I tell you? Wild with
grief, we wandered for days about the
forest, insensible to rain or wind, to
hunger or thirst, even to the mocking
sneers of the birds who hunted us,
pecking at us and tearing out our
feathers. AVhat did we care for that
or anything else \

** At last my com[)anion said : ' If
you have no objection, let us leave
forever this hateful wood, which has
brouglit us such misery and bitterness.
Let us give up this odious world and
find some other home.' *But where
would you have us goT I asked.
* If wo have not found peace in this
retreat, why should we find it any-
where else? We cinild not be more
completely hidden in any other place
than we liave been here, and yet here
we have been discovered. I don't feel
like beginning a new lifc nobody
knows wliere.* ' Let us gi> among hu-
man beings," answen>d she. *Thei>?,
al leatli we shall find goodneiSt geoei^

osity, and greatness. Just tfa
admirable their towns and
are! To be sure I can ool;
them by hearsay, but I har!
reason to suppose that we sbon
with a cordial reception. Tl
day the falcon chased me I ti
uge in a hoUow oak, and I
to the talk of two men who w
ting at the foot of the tree,
never heard anything so beau
their words I Anybody could i
they were the kings of the
creation. They were complaii
the mice that make such havoc
their bins and granaries. Lei
and deliver them from these
' You have convinced me,' I :
' Yes, we will go to mankind an
them faithfully. How they i
spect us and reward our sei
And so after taking a sad fare
our old friend and adviser, wl
us depart with many forebodi
evil, we winged our way thm
forest. Toward evening we i
its outskirts and saw before
village. We had reached oi
country.

^ We chose one of the lai^
in this village for our home,
once opened a desperate y
against the rats and mice wb
attracted thither in large nnml
the provisions. This novel n
life brought us so much ooo
and distraction, that we had i
to dwell upon our grief. Onri
rose once more, and we used tc
each other: ^What sublime
men are! How grand are a
actions ! They are bom ignofi
they know everything! Th
bom feeble and they conquer i
These perfections formed the
of our miming talks when the
work was over, their hospital
goodness, oar fiuthful devot
them, and the gratitude it coi
fail to win.

*^ Little by little we.beean
iarised with our position aad
iL The more we studied hoi
tare the more we adnirad ii

The <Hd OwL

271

cncy, justice, asd rectitade. One
erening we ventured cautiouBlj out of
Qor retreat, and looked about the vil-
lage. Before each window hung
cages filled with solitary prisoners.
There I recognized the cruel nightin-
gale, the linnet who had caused me so
much anguisii, and many other birds
who had been in the habit of torment-
mg us in the forest. We returned
home enchanted with our expedition.
*Here at last we have found justice,'
eried I. 'In this happy huid the
wicked are punished for their cruelty
and prevented from doing further mis-
duef ; while the good arc lefl free and
hippy. Why, there was not an owl
to be seen among the prisoners I "We
have reason to be grateful that at last
we have reached a haven of rest and
tnuKpiillity.'

"We at once decided that I should
go in search of our old friend, and
induce him to share our happiness.
'Poor soul ! ' we said, ' at last the des-
tioT which he has so long sought is
within his reach. Now, at last, he will
see that our hopes of final happiness
were not mere dreams.'

'^ A few nights after I set out on a
Tint to our friend in his obscure re-
treat. We parted full of joy in think-
Dg of the good old solitary, whoso
last days we were to make so peace-
fiiL I flew at full speed, and reach-
ed the wood without fatigue. Full of
hope, and picturing the pleasant sur-
pne my coming would arouse in him,
I eatered his dwelling quite suddenly,
exchiimmg, * Here I am, father ; I have
ttoetotake you away from this place,
aid show you that happiness which
70a have always treated as a chimera.'
*!• it you, my son P he said with joy-
fal astonishment, but in a weak, chok-
ed voice ; and I saw that a great
chuige had come over him. A shud-
feran through me. 'Oh, yes, it is
V replied I cheerfully. < We have not
fiigotten you, and we shall not be able
to enjoy our happmess unless you arc
tkro-to share it with us. Come, I
will tell you the rest on the way. But
whit ails you thai 70a do not move ?'

' Nothing, my son ; it will soon be
ended. Before this day closes 1 shall
be cured.' * Cured! — ^why, arc you
ill? you who were so strong and
hearty!' 'The illness from which I
am sufiering has always afflicted me,'
he said, 'but the time of cure has
come ; the physician is at hand.' ' The
physician I what physician '\ ' * Death,'
he answered in a hollow voice.
* Death !' cried I, ' what do you mean ?
would you leave us ? we caimot live
without you. Oh, come away ! come
whh me ! have you no pity on me ?'
' Pity ! yes, child, I i)ily you for your
youth, and because you do not stand
where I stand now. It is you who
have no pity in holding mc back from
my repose. Let nie rest, my son, in
the etei*nal peace of nature.'

^ His head dropped forward heavily.
He was dead. Dead at the moment
when I offered liim the accomplishment
of hopes long since abandoned.

** I flew away horror stricken, as if
an enemy were tracking me to de-
struction; but what I fled from was
planted in my heart never to be up-
rooted. The night fell— one of those
dreary autumn evenings when cloud
and mist contend for mastery. "With
a heart oppressed with grief, 1 rcftumed
to the scenes I had passed through so
gayly a few hours before. What had
I left ? Parents, brothers, children,
friends, all dead — njy corapaiiion alone
remained to sustain and comfort me ;
to be consoled and sui)ported.

"Absorbed in these gloomy ideas,
I reached the confines of the village.
Afar off I recognized the hospitable
roof that had given us shelter, and my
heart beat with joy in sfnte of my
affliction. But who were that troop
of children gathered before the barn
door? What did these cries of joy,
and stamping of feet, and clas]>ing
of hands portend, and the smiling old
folks looking on and encouraging their
sports? Of course it must be some
pure and virtuous amusement since
children joined in it, so I flew on with
a sense of kindly interest. As the
diataoce lessened, I thought I aair— I

37S

The OU OwL

knew I saw a bird banging wltb out-
stretcbed wings on the bam-door —
nailed tbere, bleeding, dead. Ob!
beaven's justice ! my companion mur-
dered! dead! butchered! And that
before the eyes of nature, under the
light of heaven ! And no protesting
voice raisi d from the bosom of the
earth ! I hung about there, staring at
the horrid eight with my heart turned
to stone within me. As night deepened
the children dispersed, and then I fell
upon that inanimate fonn like a wild
beast, and fastened upon the nails with
beak and claws to tear their prey from
them. My furious struggles only
served to lacerate me till I bled ; and
all the time the dead thing looked at
me ; its cold, fixed glassy oyos glared
at me with a cruel irony that scared
me from the place. Yet night and day
I wandered about tlie burn, and night
and day watched that dreadful ob-
ject, until at the end of two weeks
madness relieved me of reason and
self- consciousness. Then 1 went away
with a heart bubbling over with hatred
of humanity. Oh, that I could have
clutched the human race in one single
body within these claws, to tear out
its eyes, devour its heart, and fling the
carrion to be the sport of winds and
tempests !

" The thread of my life was broken.
What more had I to do with the earth,
that wicked stepmother who gives us
light only to make its glare insuffer-
able. With frantic speed I rushed
through the valley, and paused only
when fatigue and hunger forced me to
rest. I stopped on the margin of a
little stream shaded by bushy alders,
while the turf along its edge was
strewn with wheat. I drew near to
eat, but hardly had I touched the earth
when I felt myself caught and held
fast, ' Well,' thought I, * man would
be unworthy of his name if he did not
use all his splendid gitls for the de-
stmction of others. At least I will
thank him for ridding me of life.' And
then I fell into a gloomy stupor,
and became indifferent to everything
aroond me, wliile in my memory there

arose visions of childhood — of the old
nest in the tower of ciy parents, and
the pretty little brothers whom I had
vowed never to part from ; and as nr
heart swelled with the woeful regrea
these images brought up to me, I sud-
denly caught sight of the fo^^ler m-
ing toward me in all haste, and at the
same inntant I beheld my brother-
my brother whom I had never sea
since our childhood. A transport of
joy came over me ; now I was safe,
and he it was who would release me.
We would fly away somewhere ton
gether and begin life over aguo.
Divine hope ! it restored strength and
courage to me. * brother, brother!' I
cried anxiously, * here I am^-come
this way. Don't you sec meV He
turned his eyes toward me. * Why. a
that you? Caught in a trap, aren't
you ? I really wii»h I had time to stop
and help you, but I am in full chase
afker a young owl who has given me
considerable encouragement. Yon had
better get out of that snare pretty quick,
for the keepers coming. Gooti-lj
till we meet again.'

"And now anything, everrthing
seemed possible, explicable, credible.
All my other miseries faded away
in view of this lie against friendship,
this insult to humanity, this blasphemy
against pity.

^ But af^er all is said and done, the
instinct of life is of all feelings the most
irresistible. A moment before I had
loathed existence ; now, when I saw
the fowler draw near, I struggled wildly
with beak and claws and wings to
save myself. In the presence of death
the sun looked bright to me ODce
more, and life again seemed good. A
few more despenite springs and »iNg'
gles and I was free — ^flying whither?
to my native forest, where I had fint
known misery and disappointiiieiilt
now my only companions. There all
would be unchanged, I thought, except
myself. I only should be hopek»T
I alone gloomy and silent amid the
undying joys of serene nature. Bat—
ah me ! when I reached the old plart
disappointment was lying in wait fv

The Old OwL

S78

o. The dear old nest was
rail had crambled awaj and
g the mountain-side. The
that sheltered us once was
1 the earth; the beeches
1 and scrub bushes chok-
hice where thej had stood,
in me and in nature was
nothing was lefk but to bid
nemorj and joj — aye, and
M), for the matter of that.
9 my last deception. From
this I have stagnated
ig, hoping, fearing nothing,
row are so far away in the
ej seem never to have be-
e. And this is peace."
SIS a long silence, broken
i sound of mj oppressed
At last the owl said, with
h:

ished to know mj storj.
. and you are welcome to
it may give you. In the
[ can only say that I pity
'Oui= innocence, your can-
ir destiny."

plied, ^ You are right. I
ow, and its promises shall
e me."
id and repeated, " I pity

'x>Tj impressed me pro-
rehearsed the miserable
saw in his life my own. I
redulous being who had
icitly to life. The wretch
>wn kindness among his
and reaped contempt, was
r. Was I then to clamber
ith to the end only to see
Qg in the distance? So-
e to me every day more
I avoided my companions
and their railleries, which
ime I had borne with in-
eemed like so many poi-
^s aimed at my heart.
with my old friend only
ly contempt for men and
yet in tins mute revolt
tre and humanity, I select-
khe sole confidant of my
inrariabl^ left him with a

VOL. IV. 18

heart more bitter and oppressed than
before.

One day, toward sunset, I was
wandering through the great arches of
the forest, going as usual toward the
retreat of my bosom friend. A seri-
ous silence was creeping slowly down
from the tree-tops. The birds were
still, the winds asleep; no sound or
sign of life to be anywhere discerned,
except the crushing of dried leaves
beneath my tread. And as I went
dreaming on amidst this solitude, I
heard in spirit the melody of Nature
dropping through the tender evening
air, and I tried to give it words in this
little song :

When Spring with loft maternal hand

Spreads aU the earth with green,
And *gaintt the iun*t too ardent gase

Wearee many a leaf j screen.

Build your neata, tirlghi-plamed mlntitreli,

Forgetting not to praise
The bounty that so hirishij

Sheds gladness on jour ways.

Tliinic not, in missing old-time friends,

Some tkrorite bower or hedge,
That Nature has misused her power,

Or brolcen a saored pledge :

This is Springes immortality ;

Youth must replace decay.
Griere not that your turn too must 6ome :

Less brief than bright your day !

Build your nests then, my chanters sweet :

Bloom flower, vine, and tree :
Let no discordant wail disturb

Spring's song of rapturous glee.

I reached the hermit's celL He was
not there as usual, crouched on the
edge of his nest ; and I called to him,
thinking he had fallen asleep or wan-
dered ofi^, as he sometimes did, into a
thicker gloom to meditate. No answer.
I stood on tiptoe and looked uneasily
into his retreat. There I saw in the
confusing obscurity a greyish, motion-
less mass. I laid my hand upon it,
and what was my horror to find my
fi*iend, my owl ! I turned in upon him
the last beams of the sun, hoping to
rouse him. Alas ! the light did not
penetrate his eyeballs; the rays did
not warm bis frigid form. I lifted
him up ; the head dropped lifelessly*
the wings were rigid, the shrivelled
claws were cramped and clenched with
the death struggle. He was dfittdlhe
suffered no longer.

174

SmmsL

I replaced him in his hole and stop-
ped up its mouth with stones and tarf,
sweeping a great branch of ivy across
this improvised tomb. When the wall
cramblesi soft yerdore will shield those

f)or remains. Oh ! my dear, tired owl I
could only give thee a tomb ; sleep
well and peacefully therein I And so
I tamed away, thinking of my old
friend and of his reversesi precepts,
Bufferings, and misanthropy.

^ Su(^ is the term of existence,''
said I ^80 end our joys and our
pains.** But higher and higher in my
soul swelled the song of the forest, un-
til I cried, *< This is the voice of God,
and he cannot lie :" and entermg into
myself I understood at last the merci-
ful and providential law that governs
nature, attaching to each suffering a
consolation, to each pang a hope. To
what was my contempt of life leading
me? To the gradual debasement of
my being, to a forgetfulness of the
duties that God imposes on his crea-

tures. Man is made for stmg
he who deserts the field is a
If his stren^h fails, can he n
fresh force nom prayer? D
Heavenly Father ever foi^t hi
children ? Yes, life is a hard
road, but it leads straight to
where the sanctified soul shall
waiSd and rest My poor ow
well feel sour and exasperate
death meant to him only the p
nothingness ; but man has otlu
nies, and rebellion is for him
fiable revolt What matter
trials to him who is to possess et
Should we not blush at our co
when we remember that the
Grod is our consoler?

And all these grave thought
a poor bird of whom nothing is
a bunch of feathers! Welllth
days when a slight emotion
the human heart spill over, lik
vase overflowed by one dt
much*

SONNET.

And thou wouldst live for ever, poet soul

In love of human kind ! What must thou do ?

Look o'er the past, scan well whoso worth is true —

Not those mere forms that with the ages roll —

And say what readst of them on Time's bright scroll : —

*< Names faint or fading, save a fadeless few, '

Like rare Etruscan colors, ever new."

Yet tell me, seer, how shine the favored whole :^

^ Some glitter as the icy mountain peak

Remote, whence flow a thousand generous streams :

Some glow as mom or even, or blushing cheek

Of one beloved, or angels known in dreams ;

These touch upon the universal — speak —

Lo ! Nature, Love, Religion, are the themes.'*

I%t Mu^ RumpteUf im Pari$.

t7fi

lirom The Month.

THE MUSilE RETROSPECTIF IN PARia

18 probable that there has never

an Exhibition so singular in its

tsted contents, so rich in market

prepared so abruptly for sub-

to public inspection, as that
, dnriBg the latter half of the year
was to be seen in the Palais de
itrie in Paris, under the name of
^huSe JRetrospecHf'^ In a gen-
iy,its character may be compre-

. in England by a reference to
raington Museum Exhibition of
tem which its conception was
and which it outstripped. Like
ihibition, it came into existence
dal connection with an institute
mary object of which is to pro-
le cultivation of art in connec-
ith manufactures. This was
in Paris three years ago, under
e of ^ VVhion Centrale des
Arts appliques d V Industrie;^
der circumstances not a little
,and not a little gratifying to
ho have led on the great move-
f improvement in art for the
irter of a century in England,
ill find that it has como to pass
! best leading spirits among our
[yals have felt and admitted,
little alarm, the success of that
mt, and the formidable compe-
ith which it has threatened their
B preeminence. The simplest
«t sincere evidence of this ap-

1 the published Report of M.

* Merim^e in reference to the
Exhibition of 1862, and the

1 of its sentiments by the con-

of that admirable periodical,

«tte des Beaux Arts. In that

M. Merim^ who was official

* for the French section of the
donal Joiyi thus expresses him-

" Since the Universal Exhibition in
1851, and even smce that of 1855, im-
mense progress has taken place in Eu-
rope ; and although we in France have
not remained stationary, we cannot
conceal from ourselves that our lead
has become less sensible, and is ever
tending to its termination. It is our
duty to remind our manufacturers that,
however successful they may have
been on this occasion, they may possi-
bly sustain a defeat, and that at no very
distant date, if from the present moment
they fail to address all their energies
to the maintenance of a preeminence
which can only be secured by an inces-
sant aim at perfection. English indus-
trial produce more especially, so mark-
edly behindhand in point of art previ-
ous to the Exhibition of 1851, has made
in the course of ten years prodigious
advcmcemerU ; and if it should so con-
tinue its onward movement, we might
find ourselves unexpectedly surpassed."
This startling avowal from an author-
ity not to be contravened led, among
other consequences, to such reflections
as the following : " The contact of Eng-
land and France, rendered so frequent
by the Universal Exhibitions of Paris
and London," observes the Gazette des
Beaux ArtSj ^ will not be without its
use in reference to a regenerative move-
ment now in contemplation, to which
we wish to draw the attention of our
readers. In our visits to that country
— so contiguous to us in locality, so
severed in habits — we have learned
how much can be done by a few men
of resolute purpose— citizens generous-
ly devoted to the public good, and un-
restricted in their freedom of action.
This lesson was well condensed in the
words, of^en quoted, of a sovereign who
has passed a portioD of his life in Bug*

876

lU Miiiie Seirotpeetif in Ami.

landed has bronght from thence certain
English conclosions ; namely, ' Individ-
ual initiative, urging on its plans with
indefatigable ardor, saves Grovemment
from monopolizing the management of
the vital energy o( the nation. • • •
Stimulate, then, among individuals an
energetic spontaneity for promoting all
purposes luiying in view the beautiful
and the useful'"

The result of the very pregnant views
thus unreservedly avowed has been an
effort in emulation of that much-com-
mended individual vigor of operation ;
and accordingly a small band of artis-
tic and literary Frenchmen, led on by
a distinguished and very zealous ar-
chitect, M. Guichard, constituted them-
selves the nucleus of a society the great
aim and object of which is an incessant
application of the most effective means
for fertilizing the wide domain of native
art and manufacture, so as to sustain it in
its present rich power of productiveness.
They have assumed the name of
Z' Union Centrale des Beaux Arts ap*
pliques d PLkdustrie. They have in-
stituted a museum for the collection and
exhibition of all manner of objects akin
to their undertaking, where lectures are
to be systematically delivered to the
same end.

In fine, they have developed so rap-
idly in their proceedings, that they have
designed, and we may say founded, a
college wherein special education and
special distribution of honors arc to be
dispensed to students of industrial art.
Until a suitable structure for this has
been erected, within which the Society
will establish its centre of action, its
headquarters are in that quaint and
spacious square in the Marais de St
Antoine Quartier of Paris, the Place
Boyale ; noted for its clever white mar-
ble equestrian statue of Louis XIII., and
recently deriving a mekncholy interest
from being the death scene of Rachel.

In addition to these great projects
for peimanent organization, of which
the germs will be found at the Adelphi
and South Kensington, that special Ex-
hibition of 1862 in the hitter quarter,
die toeom of which was so extraor-

dinary, and we may add the i
of that noble display of medisei
siastical art which which was t<
at Malines in 1864, were the (
of suggestions which fell most
tively upon the zealous mind
projectors. It was deemed e
in the councils of the Place
that Paris too should have its
spective" exhibition. The Frei
emment, eschewing all jeak
this independent association,
help as soon as application wa
and Marshal Vaillant placed a
posal abundant space for the ]
undertaking in the large salooi
Palais de Tlndustrie.

It was not, however, witho
apprehensions of success in the
riment — without some nervous
ings as to the realizing of w
means, and winning the loan
treasures of antique vertu frc
possessors, that they entered up
work. However, en avant \
word, and full success ensuei
undertaking had the good foi
win favor in four quarters of i
influence — the Emperor, Prin(
toriski, the Marquis of Hertfc
the Messrs. Rothschild. When
came known, it acted as an «^ <
same" to the masters of lesser
and from that time streams
drcamt-of and unhoped-for vi
came pouring in upon the soci
til at length an inconvenient o
seemed imminent, and it becanu
sary to select and decline. T
mate result, however, was, that
commodation of twelve large
was absolutely exhausted by tlM
butions ; and it has been estima
the whole might realize on salt
thing like a ndllion and a half of
sterliiig.

It V90& a patent defect of this
tion, that works of the same kii
not classed together. This wai
sequence, doubtless, of the exac
contributors. Each proprieti
collection of treasures, however
and unconnected their cootei
quired, both for safety's sake ai

ne MusSe BeirotpeeHf in JParii.

277

lable vanity, that his own ga-
doid shine apart The specta-
efore, was for a while bewilder-
scerning the various elements
BSt and most miscellaneous col-

lall, neatly arranged selection
•weapons stood as a foundation
srhole. From this we had to

a prodigious bound — for the
ment was excellence itself, the
ieces of Greece. The coUec-
bese, if brought into one range
iptacle, would have been suffi-
oonstitute a most valuable mu-
statucttes, vases, and other ob-
ome of perfect beauty. We
I a brief sketch like this attempt
ailed description, which could
tantalizingly imperfect. We
ike a statuette of Minerva,
*d as No. 98 of the catalogue :
f Toronuichos ; reproduction
toil, conserve dans le Temple
hte. Bronze fondu enplein,
U U plus arehatque. Vh des
tx bronzes ^ecs connus.** With
tdonable veneration might not
r of the Greek marvels of art
'er this, ^one of the oldest
ronzes known" !
ler violent leap of transition
us from the schools of Phidias
xiteles to the middle ages and
iasance period. Here, again,
ibutions were profuse. In the
he ivories were of much inter-
tych, poliptych, and single sub-

which the deep sincerity of
It of their era struggled through
re sterling value to imperfect
H these, as well as the larger
of other works of the same
re connected with sacred sub-
Ahhough not equal, upon the
the Malines collection, there
d abundant food for deep medi-
nd admiration. Here, as there
«a commemoration of the mur-
k. Thomas — a reliquary in the
a rectangular box of silver, gilt
bellished with niello, its cover
Uy topped with a large garnet
nxomMdedby a setting of pearls.

On either larger side was pictured the
Bla3ring or the entombment of the mar-
tyr, with inscriptions. Figures of an-
gels completed the ornaments of this
choice work, which has been attributed,
with some doubt, to a German hand of
the twelfth century.

Numerous works in iron, of the
twelfth century, many of great beauty
-^others in brass, silver, and gold, to-
gether with specimens of enamel and
jewelry, of middle-age handlmg, were
exliibited on this occasion. Few, how-
ever, of the curiosities of this period
drew more attention than the manu-
scripts in simple scroll or illuminated.
The greater portion of these came from
the collections of M. Ambroise Firmin
Didot or M. Le Carpentier. The
Marquis de Granay sent one article
worth a hundred others, viz., the Books
of the Gospels which had belonged to
Charlemagne, and which, as tr^tion
tells us, were wrung from the abbey of
St. Maurice d'Argaune in the civil wars
of the fourteenth century. On.one side
of its binding was a gold plate, impress-
ed with the figure of Chnst Blessing—
a work of the ninth century. It was aJso
adorned with a set of uncut precious
stones, added in the twelfth century.
Near to this were the Gospels, written
in the eleventh century at the monas-
tery of Ottenbeuren in Swabia, in char^
acters of gold and silver. A copy of
Josephus, from Saint-Tron in the prov-
ince of Lemberg, Belgium, of the twelfth
century, was also extremely fine. An
Italian manuscript of the fourteenth
century was also there, written on vel-
lum, with ornamental capitals and mi-
niatures — the revelations of St. Bridget
Among these precious works not the
least singular was a Livre ^heures on
vellum, having 880 pages, illustrated
and ornamented with as many different
subjects. Of these, fiftynsix were taken
from the Dance of Death. This was a
work of the fifteenth century, and,
strange to say — ^whether in melancholy
jest or otherwise-^had been presented
by Louis XV. to his physician Dr.
Mead. The works of the renaiBMiioe
and subseqaeiit period, in tins ooDee-

278

ne Muiie B^broipeei^ U PmU.

tioDy weremoetnumerouB in what maj
be termed miniatare objects — flight
branches and lovely blossoms springing
from the great main trunks of painting
and sculpture. For them chiefly, so
full of winning instructiveness, this
Mmee JRelrospectifvfonld seem to have
been especially got up. They appear-
ed m forms of gold, silver, and much
more cherished bronze, in ivory, and
again the happier vehicle wood, in
crystal and in glass, in steel, in gems
and miniatures, in enamelled terra
cotta, in furniture, in time-pieces, in
tapestry, and numberless other ways.

The bronzes, scattered among the
collections on every side, were admi-
rable. The miniature model of an
equestrian statue — a condottiere leader
by Donatello— was universally felt to
be a model in that most difficult branch
of art It excited an absolute furore
amongst the critics. In contrast to
its graceful swing of boldness, there
was a basso relievo from an unknown
hand, representing the figure of Char-
ity — a draped female figure— clasping
a child to her bosom caressingly, while
other fondlings of the like age cling
round her neck and her knees. Exquis-
ite sweetness of expression is here found
united to perfection of form and mas-
terly arrangement of elaborate dra-
pery. Yet the author is wholly un-
known. Numerous statuettes sustain-
ed the honor of this class. We pass
them to note three busts — ^full size —
which could not fail to arrest the at-
tention and conmiand the deep admi-
ration of every amateur or artist who
passed through these saloons. The
first was that of Beneviani, an Italian
noble of the fiAcenth century ; the sec-
ond, of Jerome Beneviani, a poet and
philosopher of the sizteenth century ;
the third, of the great Buonarotti.
The rigid adherence to nature, full of
sincere force of expression, impressed
on all three, compelled one to pause
and ponder and commune with cliar-
acter so deeply significant Such busts
leave impressions not easily to be ef-
&ced, and are most instructive to the
■oulptor.

The great Btrength of this
tion lay, however, not so mud
subjects to which we have all
in its singular profusion of e:
in the vast field of pottery and
enamelling. It is probable thi
have so many and such varii
cimens of both these branche
been hitherto brought together
but just to say, that by far th
er p.>irt of the voluminous an
attached to it the names of B
Rothschild and M. Alphonso
child. Every variety of pol
porcelain having any claim to
tion (with the exception of o
English worics) seemed to ha
in one quarter or another, iti
sentative.

Here were Moorish and E

moresque vessels, comparative
in design and tinting, from wl
great susceptibility of Italian i
its first inspirations. Then c
msgolica, in all its progressif
fications; the varnished scu^
Luca dcUa Robbia; the rel
Palissy, of which we had her
contrasted variety of subject,
the difierent schools of Itidy fi
most interestingly illustratei
value attached to some of tl
specimens might be thought I
were we not familiar with the
agances into which the loo]
amateurs are led, in their dei
the singular, if not the unique,
there appeared in the treasur
Rothschilds a morsel — a small
stick^of the almost extinet
of Henry U., to which, it was
ed, the value of forty thoosam
was attached. If the whole i
so subsisting specimens of thi
were swept away, what, in ]
general grace of form, eleg
linear detail, or delicacy oi
would be lost to the world ?
thing infinitesimally inconsi
Around this precious reliqo
was a wondrous profusion of '.
enamels, belonging to various
and exhibiting in every deg
beauties of that exquisite apo

Th$ JUu$e€ SeiroipeeHf in Parti.

279

»Ked either to portraiture or
toric or sacred subjecL These,
deserve to be cherished with
kiess and affectioD.
ng other contributions to this
ioD were a large coliection of
nese and Japanese curiosities,

2 with great truth the title Be-
[/"could be affixed. Thej com-
Imirably great strength of con-
1 with charming delicacj of
hment

Qtrast to all these gentler pro-
I of human genius came the
contribution of the emperor,
ng art and ingenuity as hand-
to war — not as ministering to
unities or luxuries of peace.
• words, it gave, in review, a

3 array of the heaviest heavy
>f the fifteenth and sixteenth
3 — some thirty suits, standing
e — illustrating the period when
the entire frame of the man
was encased in metal plates ;
onsequently, to fall in battle
too much after the fashion of
-never to rise again, unless
loner, or unless assisted from
\e by the smart hands of some
loire, and thus once more re-

the perpendicular on the
that singular hippogriff, a

armor. In this collection of
B the variety of helmets was
king— some singularly extrav-

their steel contour, and all
ittle accommodation as possi-
he functions of breathing or
A few offered most ludicrous
» of the human face divine, a
16 projecting in Roman rug-

tmly an iron joke. Among
a German tournament-casque
ipicaous. It belonged to the
alf of the seventeenth centu-
rhoUy of silver, and richly or-
i both in carving and inden-
iiis gem of the collection was,
n, a present from the em-
the emperor.

fiDor of the central and most
MIS gnmp in the saloon had

1 boDor. It presented a

knight on horseback — man and horse
in full panoply, and an attendant man-
at-arms. It seemed intended to unite
the aspect of lightness with genuine
metallic strength. A tradition is con-
nected with it : that at a period when
the progressive development of the fa-
tal use of fire-arms, of cannon, arque-
buss, petronel, and pistol, had gradu-
ally weakened faith in the utiUihr of
the chivalric steel coat, Louis SLIII.
and his potent minister Cardinal de
RicheL'eu were both staunchly true to
the olden creed of the olden time,
where

*' None of your ancient heroes
Ere heard of cannon-ball.
Or knew the force of powder,
To slay their foes withal ;"

and it was thought expedient by
both that his majesty should have this
splendid model-suit made, in order to
use influence of the most potent kind
against the new martial heterodoxy.
The progress of time has proved how
vainly the recalcitrant effort was made.
The great explosive agent has pre-
vailed — until at length, in our own
time, the management of the hauehei
a feu is the beginning and end of all
scientific strategy; and even the cui-
rassier — ^the last of the steel-clads — is
surmised to be on his last legs.

While thus on one side of this sa-
loon these numerous examples of ar-
mor were ranged — a terrible show—
and the helmets occupied, in close
muster, an encircling shelf, the carme
blanche had its honors sustained by a
series of radiating groups attached to
the walls, in which blades of Italy,
Germany, and France, with matchless
Toledo rapiers, showed their quality
unsheathed. The thrilling simplidQr
of the cold gleaming steel in these
deadly implements was, in many in-
stances, strangely contrasted wiu the
exquisite artL«(tic elaboration of orna-
ment upon their hilts. This anomaly
was completed by the adoption, for
this purpose, of subjects taken from
Holy Writ, and the most tender illus-
trations of religious charity, sculptar-
ed in gold or silver, or tinted in the
most delioEite enamel Thus we fiNnid

S80

I%e Mutie Betr^tpeeUf m Poarig.

upon one the foar phases of the Prod-
igal Son*8 career admirably composed
in miniature basso reo them the opera-
tion of the European political system.
The question is well worth the study of
the statesman, and it is ably treated in
this work.

Another question of more than com-
mon interest, especially to our natural-
ized citizens, is the extent to which the
government of the United States will
afford them protection in foreign lands.
The doctrino extracted by Mr. Dana from
the cases of Martin Koszta, Simon Tou-
sig, and others, is, that the government
will afford protection to a domiciled resi-
dent of the United States whilst travel-
ling in a foreign country, under her pass-
port, against any arrest or seizure by the
government of his native sovereign, in
any event except that of a voluntary re-
turn to his place of birth ; but in such
case he will not be protected aeainst mil-
itary service owing by him to his native
sovereign at the time of his emigra-
tion.

The case of the Trent, in which Messrs.
Mason and Slidell, the rebel commission-
ers to Great Britain and France, were
removed from that vessel, at sea, by the
commander of afi armed vessel of the
United States, and brought in as prison-
ers of war, is the subject of a learned
note by Mr. Dana. He considers this
case to have settled but one principle:
** that a public ship, though of a nation at
war, cannot take persons out of a neutral
vessel, at sea, whatever may be the claim
of bar gOTernment on those pemooB." A

doctrine always hdd by the gov
the United States, and one \
were glad to see authoritativ
lished on a claim made by th
land.

We have not space to point
tail the many interesting que
cussed in Mr. Dana^s learned n
as those of Intervention, Medi
tradition, eta But we cannot,
to him, omit a reference to th<
now agitating the public mil]
out of our reclamation on Gre
for compensation for the rava^
Alabama and other confeder
teers, fitted out in the port
country. The question at is
somewhat different one fron
generally supposed. Our owi
court has decided that it is no
neutrality, in the absence of i
stipulation, or local statute,
arm, and equip a vessel of war
her, under American colors, t
of a belligerent, with the himl
pose of there offering her for
commercial enterprise ; thougfc
be subject to capture by the
ligerent, as contraband of i
Dana, after a thorough examinn
authorities and of the diplom
spondence between the two gw
thus sums up the points at iss

The United States claims
from Great Britain for injuric
her commerce by cruisers i
rebel flag, for the following rea

1. Because Great Britain m
cipitate and unwarranted reco
belligerency of the rebel p4
thereby established in law, an*
extent brought about in fact,
things which made possible an*
the illegal acts of individuals c
of.

2. Because the measures tal
British Government to preven
ing of vessels from British p<
and equipped therein in violat
neutrality, were tardy and feel
as ineffectual ; whether this f
mistakes of law in the advis
crown, or bad faith, or incapi
ferior officials, or from the in
of the Acts of Parliament, bei
an internal question, with y
United States were not bound

8. Because Great Britain di<
and detain or disarm these ^
refuse them asylum, or otbe
with them in such manner at

New JMUeatiam.

285

^athorized her to do, after their
Dt escape from the original

saiise the British GoTemment
eren to suggest amendments of
B of Parliament in any respect
r, or to introduce the subject to
ent when their inefficiency had
OYod, and the government had
|uested so to do, not only by the
States, on terms of reciprocity,
ntizens interested in preserring

cause the government had neg-
r refused to prosecute citizens of
adled Confcderato States who
penly residing in England as
for that power, and notoriously
in fitting out vessels in violation
^ neutrality, though abundant
) had been furnished to authorize
ng8.

cause, by reason of this course
British Government, the rebels
Q able to set forth and maintain
tive force of steamers cruising
^erican commerce, having asy-

making repairs and getting coal
plies in British ports; built, fit-
armed, and manned in and from
, and never even expecting, or
ng to visit a port of the confed-
len otherwise they would scarcely
1 a single cruiser ; the result of
ad been a most efiective belliger-
to the rebellion, and the great
j^e to England and detriment to
ited States of driving from the
) greater part of the American
Qe marine, heretofore the equal
I of Great Britain, and transfer-
I commerce of the world to the
lag.

Iritish (Government replies: 1.
i recognition of belligerency was
lie, and made necessary at the
ras done, and dictated by a duty
Fnited States as well as to Great

and that the United States
>y it the rights of blockade and

it the government acted in good
d with reasonable diligence in
I its laws for the preservation of
rality ; and that, if subordinate
biled in capacity or diligence in
iT caseg, their acts or failures
i a part of the entire proceed-
erwise proper and efiective, the
tnnot be expected to hold itself
bk te their remote consequen-

ces, in the way of making compensation
for acts done by belligerents out of the
jurisdiction.

8. That the government did seize and
prosecute, in her colonial ports, vessels
which were charged with being fitted out
at home in violation of neutrality ; and
that she was not bound by the law of
nations to refuse asylum to, or seize or
disarm or insist on the disarmament ol
vessels afterward commissioned as pub-
lic ships of war of a belligerent visiting
her ports, on the ground that they had
been originally, and before their commis-
sioning as vessels of war, fitted out in
her jurisdiction in violation of her neu-
trality.

4. That the government was not satis-
fied that the Acts of Parliament had
proved inadequate to such an extent,
and after so full trial, or that any amend-
ment would be likely to improve ^em so
materially as to justify the United States
in charging the refusal to attempt their
amendment as a want of good faith.

5. That the government had judged in
good faith, on the advise of competent
counsel, whether, in cases suggested,
prosecutions against individuals should
be instituted.

6. That if vessels fitted out and dis-
patched from Great Britain ever so clearly
m violation of her neutral rights, had
fraudently escaped, without htA faith on
the part of the government. Great Britain
was not responsible for acts of hostility
done by such vessels beyond her juris-
diction. Her duty was fulfilled & she
restored any prizes such vessels might
bring within her jurisdiction.

7. That it \«a8 inconsistent with the
dignity and honor of the government to
submit to arbitration claims of another
government, the decision of which in-
volved a question whether the advisers
of the crown had correctly interpreted
the law, or the executive officers of the
crown had acted with diligence, good
judgment, or good faith.

The points we have thus briefly noticed
are but a few of the most important ones
which are fully discussed by Mr. Dana;
for a proper appreciation of his labors
we must refer the reader to the book
itself^ with the assurance that itawill
well repay the time devoted to its peru-
sal. It is no ephemeral production, but
a good, solid, and deeply interesting
work, which win long preserve its place
as a landmark in the literature of the
nineteenth century.

S86

New PuKieaHmu.

Lm or Saint Cecilia, Viboik and
Marttr. By the Reyerend Prosper •
Gu6ranger, Abb4 de Solesmes. Trans-
lated from the French. 12mo, pp. 404.
Philadelphia : P. F. Cunningham. 1866.

This work from the pen of the learned
Benedictine will, no doubt, be warmly
welcomed, both because of its authorship
and its own intrinsic merit It will take
its rank, however, rather among works
of profound hagiological research than as
a contribution to popular biographies of
the saints. The histoir of the life and
martyrdom of St CeciHa occupies but a
yery small portion of the volume. The
rest is devoted to the confirmatory testi-
monies to her life afforded by the litur-
gies of the chufsh, both Greek and Latin,
the history of her relics and of the Roman
basilica erected in her honor, and the
homage paid to her throughout Christen-
dom in literature and the arts. All this
is of the greatest interest and value, and
no little thanks are due to the eminent
author for his labor and research. As a
life of Saint Cecilia it does not satisfy us.
The style is crude and laborious, and lack-
ing in the elements of a finished biogra-
phy. The author has collected materials
which would have come from the hand
of a Wiseman or a Newman a master-
piece of literary art, a living picture of the
life and times of one of the most illustrious
saints of the church. But he docs not
appear to know how to take advantage of
the treasure which he has gathered to-

gither with so much painstaking labor,
ence the scenes in the life of Saint Ceci-
lia furnished him by the quaint and charm-
ing descriptions in the " Acts" of the saint
—-her espousals, the vision of the angel
seen by her husband, the mar^doin of
the two brothers Valerian and Tiburtius,
her own interrogatory before the Roman
prefect, and sublime death — scenes re-
plete with varied interest, and affording
matter for the most powerful dramatic
description, and presented to us in the
tamest and rudest style. What, for in-
stance, can be more commonplace than
the following: Valerian, in presence of
Cecilia and the angel, is assured by the
heavenly visitor that in return for his
consint to the vow of virginity made by
his saintly spouse, any request he might
make will be granted him. The young
man, overcome with gratitude, threw him-
self at the feet of the divine messenger,
and thus expressed his desires: Nothing
in life It more precious to me than the i£

fection of my brother; and
rescued from peril, it woul
trial to leave this beloved bi
to danger. / wiUy ther^i
requests to one: I beseech *
ver my brother, Tiburtius,
livered me, and to perfect i
confession of his name. ' ^

The translation we shoa
a iaithfiil one, and is, in the
English. We hardly see
be much improved consideri
unsympathetic style of the
we wish that in certain dc
sages the historical present
served throughout, or altogi
We are surprised to see the
upon the title page as the E
per Gu^ranger, ahhe de So
not common to attach the ti
the name of authors and pn
note as Dom Gueranger, a
for ^ abbot of is not in good

A fancy portrait accomp
lume, representing Saint C
harp, which ill accords wi
phon quoted on the title-]
tantibus organis^ Cecilia
eantahatj^^ and which is,
completely at variance with
tations of her by both ancier
artists, and we would willii
with that ; but the book is, f
we have assigned, of such v
thank the enterprising pub
opportunity afforded the Ai
lie of perusing the work in ]

Spanish Papers and Orni
NiES, hitherto unpublish
lectcd, by Washington ]
ranged and edited by P:
VINO. 2 vols., l2mo. W
after Wilkie. New York
nam. Uurd and Ilought<

In the first of these vol
presented with a choice selec
by the illustrious author,
several charming Spanish !
trative of the events of th<
Spain by the Moors, the grea
which is newly published,
volume contains some early
to the Morning Chronicle
author was but nineteen 3
These were his first essays
they are none the less remai
fine humor they display, ai
he became so ma<£ admi

New PMieaHont.

287

The biographictl skotchcs, which

dUow, of Captain James Lawrence, Lien-

enant Burrows, Commodore Perry, and

Saptain David Porter possess no little

llBtoricad value; and the extended me-

iM»r of the child poet, Margaret Miller

BttTidson, the younger sister of the well-

kDown youthful authoress, Lucretia Maria

Dtfidson, is full of the most touching and

ranantic interest A number of reviews

wA miscellaneous papers close these vol-

VBtt, which need no further praise from

vt^ to say that they are all marked

vitfa the genius of Washington Irving.

We have lEsen so much charmed by the

fmal of the Spanish legends that we

could not refrain from placing one of them

ntire before our readers — the Legend of

Ooont Julian and his family. It will be

fDondin the pages of the present number

of In Catholic World. The form in

vliidi the publication is given is as crcd-

itiUeto Uie publishers, as it is worthy of

, tto interesting matter.

Lauuxtia: a Tale of Japan. B^
lady Georgiana Fullerton. (Amen-
em Reprint) Baltimore : Kelly and
Fiet, 174 Baltimore street 1866.

Ud^ Qeorgiana Fullerton consecrates

berbgh intellectual gifts and finished

eolture with a noble devotion to the

acred cause of the Catholic religion.

Inlwr latest story of Laurentia, she has

dioaeii her theme from the comparatively

anknown history of the Catholic Church

in Jftpan, and appears to have derived

Iwr materials chiefly from the work of

f . Chtflevoix on that subject

, F.Charlevoix's History of Christianity

JBJaptn is one of the most intensely

BtflTttting books we have ever read, and

^oStAAi a page in the annals of the church

efaDing Uie records of the first three

•nttties in glory. The persistent mis-

rntation and suppression of truth,
the enemies of the Catholic re-
l>|mi nuke use of just so far as the
jndnloasness of the public will permit,
m hitherto kept the facts in regard to
Atopic under a veil of mist This
^ it lifting, however, and is destined
"^ ve trust, to disappear before the
nji of truth.

l^y FuUcrton's story is well adapted
^•nken attention to this subject, if
hN geaeral apathy and aversion to all
Miolie Uterature does not prevent its
W^l read. Ita inddenta are mainly

historical, with just enough of embellish-
ment and portraiture of imaginary char*
ters and incidents to make it life-like.
It is written with that ardor of feeling and
in that slowing style, chastened by good
taste, which are characteristic of Lady
Gleorgiana's productions. As a work of
art it is not equal to her master- piece,
Constance Sherwood. The events de-
scribed are, however, so replete with the
highest and most absorbing interest,
that one feels no inclination to advert to
the mere artistic merit of plot, style, or
description. It combines the fascination
of a well-written sensation novel, with
the utility of a solid book of spiritual
reading. We recommend it to all who
read anything at all except the daily
papers, and advise all parents, whether
they read or do not read themselves, to
give it to their children. The latter,
we are sure, will not find it hard to take.

Vignettes, Biographical Sketches of
Madame Swetchine, La SoDur Rosalie,
Madame Pape Carpenticr, Madame
Lamertine, etc. By Bessie Rayner
Parkes. London and New- York:
Alexander Strahan. 1866.

These sketches are all full of interest,
some of them most touching and beauti-
ful The life of La Soeur Rosalie can-
not fail to win admiration from every
heart The most wretched faubourg of
Paris was the scene of her labors ; here
with heart and hands, with every power
of soul and body, she labored year after
year, never weary, but simplv and
quietly performing a work which man
has been proud to honor, a work which
Qod alone fully knows. We quote a
short passage describing the funeral of
La Soeur Rosalie :

" She was followed to the grave by a mul-
titude such as could bo neither counted nor
deacribcd: every rank, age, and profession
was there; great and smull, rich and poor,
learned men and laborers, the most famous and
Uio most obscure. Instead of going straight
toward the church, the body was borne
through the streets where she had been ac-
customed to ^-isit, and women and children
who could not walk in the great profusion
fell on their knees and prayc<I. A band of
soldiers surrounded the bier and rendered
military honors to the one who lay upon
it, for she had been decorated with the Cross
of Uie Legion of Honor."

This lowly Sister of Charity fell not

New PiMeaHmu.

that her sphere was narrow, bat her
lore, her energy, and activity found every-
where opportunities; they never failed
her, she never failed them. This life of
Sister Rosalie alono would give interest
to any volume of biographies; but several
others have almost an equal interest,
particularly that of Madame Swetchine,
a noble Russian lady. She embraced the
Catholic faith, spent man^ years of her
life in Paris, associating with the noblest
spirits of the day — ^Lacordaire, Chateau-
bnand, Montalembcrt — by all of whom
she was admired with a sort of tender
reverence. Though influencing for many
years the highest circles of Parisian
society, her ILfe was most simply, hum-
bly, and devoutly Christian. The sketch
of one of our own countrywomen, Har-
riet K. Hunt of Boston, who has done
much toward enlightening the women of
the working classes by her lectures
on physiology, is also plpasantly given.
We think our authoress has shown in
this volume that women have power to
do a great work, and that this work can
easily be found, and easily done, if but
the heart and soul are in it The volume
is beautifully gotten up.

The Shax Squire, and The Informers
Of 1798, with a View of their Contem-
poraries. To which are added jottings
about Ireland seventy years ago^ By
William John Fitzpatrick, J.P., Bio-
grapher of Bishop Doyle, etc., etc.
1 vol. 12mo, pp. 879. Boston : Patrick
Donahoe.

In The Catholic World for April
last, page 122, will be found an article en-
titled : *^ Ireland, and the Informers of
1798.^' That article gave a synopsis of
portions of " The Sham Squire," of which
the copy under notice is a reprint from
the last Dublin edition. It is a curious
book, and contains many highly interest-
ing incidents of the rebellion of 1798 ; of
the death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald,
Emmet, and other Irish patriots of that
day. The facts disclosed show that
through bribery and the spy system, Eng-
land succeeded in crushing out all efforts
for Ireland's independence, even better

than her ministers boi>ed. T
of bribery, however^ is not ]
Ireland, as many writers hav<
but is the same in all oounti
all times. It has been used in
try by both sides in the late n
much success as it ever was
The only difference being thai
patriots never had money to u
a purpose, while England h
hence her success. The hot
worth reading, and throws ligl
disputed points of Irish histor
ly that portion of it relating to*

First Pbinciplis: A letter t
tant friend asking informs
the Catholic Church, by t}
H. Doane. New York: 1
Publisher, No. 27 Bard
1866.

The title of this pamphlet
itself. It is a plain statem
difference between Catholics a
tants on the way pointed out
to find true Christianity.

Lawrence Kehoe, New
soon publish a new volume o
hj the Paulist Fathers. It
tain several Sermons by the 1
Baker.

Messrs. John Murpht i
nounce a new edition <
Thoughts for Priest and Pe
Rev. Father Noethen.

RECEniED :

From J. J. O'Connor and Cc
N. J. Curious Questions.
Henry A. Brann, D.D. 1
pp. 292.

D. and J. Sadlier and Co., ]
Disappointed Ambition ; <
and Smgle. By Miss Agnc
art 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 248.

E^ Wanted to purchase, at
several copies of Brancher«
lectioncs Philosophicale.*' I
tion.

iWUfM of At Age.

how to aUaia this end through
IcBy and being infinitely power-
is able to do it. Being also
^7 good, onlj good can termi-
is Toliti<Hi. Therefore, if evil
KMsible, he could not will to
Be it ; and if, by an impossible
ition, it could oome into actoal
oe without him, he must will
07 it. The superficial theology
ilosophy which dates from the
lation, is tied up here in a Gor-
Mt, which no skill can unrareL
tains two dogmas which are
e contradictions : creation, and
stantiye essence of eviL These
n never coexist in harmony.
' the other must be modified or
ip. Either the dogma of crea*
ust be BO far given up as to
of some eternal self-existent
I in which lies the essential
ie of evil, or the substantive
oe of evil must be denied,
who deny (ur impair the first,
Msed to be Theists in the strict
oper sense of the word, and
iady moving toward Pantheism,
irho deny the second, throw up
the conception of amoral order
oniverse, of a state of proba-
rlctly so called. There is no
e, Chrbtian philosophy of any
St oomprehensiveness on the^e
except that which is included
theolo<^ of St. Augustine, St.
i, and other great Catholic

well known how completely
sent philosophers were befog-
negard to the nature and origin
. Plato tatight that the maJU-
t of which God formed the
e is eternal, and that, from an
t intractability in its essence, it
able of perfectly receiving the
< of the divine ideas. The
3tor of the universe was, there*
idered from realizing his ideal
J executing his design by the
eness of his material He
e an architect who has only
imbling stone, or a sculptor
eined maible. From this

source, aooording t6 Plato, is aU the
evil existing in £e nnirerse.

The Persians, whoso great master
was Zoroaster, resorted to the theorr
of two subordinate creators, botli
the ofisprlng of the Supreme Being,
one Ormusd, being good, and the
other Ahriman, being eviL All that
is good in the creation comes from the
first, and all the evil from the sec-
ond of these great master-mechanics.
Ahriman is destined, however, to be
eventually converted, with aU his
liege subjects, his botched workman-
ship will be repaired, and the universe
will come all right in the end. This
ingenious theory left out, however,
one essential point; namely, how
Ahriman came to have an evil nature,
since he was created by the good
God as well as Ormusd, and how he
and his works could become good, if
they were essentially eviL

Manes and the Manichsans car-
ried their dualism to a point of more
complete consistency, and more abso-
lute absurdity. They taught the ex-
istence of two eternal, self-existing
principles, one good, the other bad,
who arc engaged in perpetual war-
fare. Spiritual existences proceed
from the good principle, corporeal
existences from the evil one. Human
souls, having been in some way allured
into corporeal forms, are polluted by
them and involved in evil. It is
necessary for the soul to disengage
itself from matter, and it will then be
fit to return to the supremely good
bemg from whom it proceeded.

Any system which teaches that evil
has anything essential or substantive,
must give up the pure dogma of crea-
tion. For it is inconsistent with that
dogma to suppose that God can create
anything essentially evil, or that any
creature can create anything, or that
any substance essentially good can
become essentially evil by corruption ;
since corruption produces no new sub-
stance, but modifies substance already
existing.

Whme€y then, and what is evil?
What can there be as an altematirc

f9S

Piroikmt of tk$ Agt^

of good bafore tho intelUgenoe and
will of a rational creature to form the
material for a dilemma, and oblige
him to exercise a facaltj of choice ?
Where ia the gubstratom of a state of
probation?

Metaphysical evil, or that evil
which is included in the metaphysical
essence of all created things, is merely
the limitation of their possible good.
Simple being, en$ simpiidter^ is alone
the absolute good in possibility and in
act Jesus Christ has said, ^ There
is one good, God."* In actual ex-
istences, evil is merely a recession
from Grod. It is only relative, and
negative, therefore, and expresses the
absence of that good which exists in
some other creature, or in God. In
created existeqces, good is relative
and positive, and evil, or the absence
of good, is relative and privative. It
is a mere deficiency, but nothing sub-
stantive, any more than darkness,
cold, or vacuity are substantive.

If we can suppose, therefore, a cer-
tain good proposed to a rational crea-
ture as attainable by his free volition,
with a power to the contrary, we have
the necessary conditions of a state of
moral probation. That is, the possi-
bility is proved of a certain good being
made contingent on the voluntary choice
of rational creatures ; and with it, tho
possibility of this good being forfeited
by the deficiency of this choice. This
answers tho question whence and what
ia the possibility of evil as the concomi-
tant risk annexed to a state of proba-
tion. It is only necessar}', therefore,
to show that we can make this suppo-
sition, by explaining how the will can
bo constituted in an equilibrium be-
tween this proffered good and some
other object, with complete liberty to
incline itself to either.

That other object cannot be an es-
sentially evil object, for there is no
(inch thing in existence. It must be,
then, an inferior good. In the state of
prolxition the will is inclined to all kinds
of good indifiercntly, and capable of

• SL Mfttk. six. 17.

choosing any whidi the intelleel
to be best or most desirable. ]
pable of making a false dioice,
the intellect is capable of makinj
judgment. Intelligent spirit I
donunion where it is not detem
intrinsic necessity. It is lord
own acts. It can determine
judgments and volitioDs. A
makes it a proper sobject of
and moral obligation, capable i
placed in a state of probation.

It may appear very diffical
derstand how this can be, bat i
consciousness and practic^ ex|
give us an intimate sense of i
Let us take, then, a familiar exf
illustration.

A child is capable of appi
the good of delicious fruit, the
approbation and reward, the i
play and amusement, and the
knowledge. His parents allov
eat peaches under certain resi
and fori)id him to eat them
their permission. They alloi
play at certain times and undei
conditions, and forbid him a
amusement and recitation. 1
quire him to devote a certain
study, and to apply himself to t1
with diligence. It is plain
will of the child is in equilib
ward all the various kinds of
respect to which he receives
from his parents, and is thus ]
a state of probation, the issoe •
is in great measure Icfl to the
tion of his own free choice,
determine himself to obey hifl
for the sake of their approba
rewards, or to disobey them
sake of eating forbidden fruit
determine himself to study for
of knowledge, or to neglect it
sake of play. When he de
himself to the inferior, sensib
he docs so by a false judgmen
the particular instance the pre
sible enjojrment is best for him
desirable. Yet he has powe
contrary, and both can and <
make a right judgment He
mined to neither side by any

I^roUemi of the Age.

293

bat determines himself and
lie eqtrilibriam of his will bj
ice, by virtue of his self-do-
Fhe necessity of exercising
lominton proceeds from im-
of nature. It is easily con-
lat his nature, if it were ren-
ie perfect, would determine
'8 to prefer the approbation
, and of his own conscience,
Lsure of eating fruit, and the
f knowledge to that of play,
ostrates our present point,
how the imperfection of an
creature, which makes him
false judgments in regard to
lity of different objects of vo-
lers him a fit subject of pro-

^ is he created in this imper-
and obliged to run the risks
It and dangerous probation ?
it that God might easily pour
od of light upon his intelli-

he would be incapable of
fahie judgment, and commu-
lim such a degree of felicity
lyment of the true good, that
»uld be rapt away without ef-
d all possibility of attraction
nferior objects. He might
ite the beatific vision simul-
with the first act of reason,
B to those infants who are
to heaven in their infancy,
light secure the eternal beat-
11 intelligent creatures with-
l any of them in probation,
dent that Grod must have a
establishing a state of proba-
bat this reason must involve
t good to be attained by it.
n is, also, in part intelligible
IT as we can understand it, it
d and the creature arc more
irough the elevation of crea-

to supernatural beatitude,
created nature concurs with
rst Cause, by its own activi-
nd, con-creative cause, in the
xiner possible. It is the will
at b^titude should be the
srit, and merit implies liber-
ie. Supernatural bcatimde

is a pure boon from God to the crea-
ture, not due to him as simply exbting.
Therefore, God may bestow it on whom
he pleases, and upon any conditions he
pleases to estabh'sh. Ab probation im-
plies imperfection, and the creature is
created for his propor perfection, when
he attains it prc^tion must cease.
The period of probation must therefore
be limited. It must be also a real,
hand fide probation ; that is, the attain-
ment of beatitude must really depend
on the right use of the term of proba^
tion. G)n8equcntly, when the term of
probation has expired, those who have
failed in it must be left to the eternal
consequences of their own voluntary
error. That species of virtue which
makes an intelligent creature capable
of attaining supernatural beatitude is
itself supernatural, and therefore im-
possible without divine grace. When
this grace is lost, there is no natural
power to regain it Sin is therefore in
itself irreparable. It can be repaired
only by a second supernatural grace.
If this grace is not conceded, there
is no second probation, but the sinner
must remain perpetually in that state
to which his sin has reduced him. If
this grace is conceded, and the limits of
probation are extended, those who fail
finally and pass out of the fixed period
of probation must also remain perpet-
ually in that state to which they have
reduced themselves by their own free
and voluntary election.

Another great difficulty here pre-
sents itself, namely : it appears that the
fulfilment of the divine purpose is left
to the contingencies of second causes,
and at the mercy of the arbitraty
wills of creatures. Grod appears to be
like one who makes his plans in the
dark, without being able to know what
their success will be, or to take effica-
cious measures for securing their suc-
cess. For how can he foresee fiiture
events that are purely contingent on the
free choice of created wills ? How can
he predetermine an end, to be in-
fallibly accomplished, when this ac-
complishment is contingent on the free
arbitration of the creature ? The Oa-

294

/VrffeMf ofih&AgB.

tbolic doctrine teaches that a maltitndo
of angeb and mea destined to saper-
natoral beatitude finally fail of their
destination. Does not Uiis failure par-
tially thwart the divine plan, mar his
work, and deprive his universe of its
perfection ? Although the divine plan
has a partial success, through the con-
currence of a certain number of angels
and men with the divine will, is not
this success even due to hap-hazard ?
Must we not suppose that the divine
plan ran the risk of a complete failure,
so far as the co-operation of free-will is
concerned?

It is evident that these suppositions
are all incompatible with the essential
attributes of God. He must necessarily
have a perfect foreknowledge of all
things that will ever come to pass. He
must also have supreme dominion over
his entire creation, and be able to ac-
complish all his purposes without any
liability to be thwarted by his own
creatures. He must have decreed
from etc uity whatsoever he docs in
time through his creative act.

Therefore some, overwhelmed by tlic
difficulties which encompass the doc-
trine of the freedom of the created
will, in its relation to the divine, have
adopted the part denying it altogether.
The denial of free-will, however, makes
the state of probation, and the entire
moral order of the universe, with its
retributions, completely illusory and
fantastic. It is a denial of a fact of
universal human consciousness. Who-
ever makes it ought to become a pan-
theist at once, and maintain that all
individual existences are mere emana-
tions of the divine substance.

The Catholic doctrine distinctly pro-
claims both the divine foreknowledge
and decrees, and also the liberty of
choice in the created intelligent nature.
A Catholic theologian, therefore, can-
not dispose of the difficulty in the case,
by summarily denying either side of
the dogmatic truth. St. Thomas
Aquinas, with those who follow his
scliool strictiy, endeavors to resolve the
difficulty by the hypothesis of a physi-
cal prcmotion of Uie will, or an effica-

cious grace, which has an in
connection with a right choice,
leaves the will to make this chd
ly and with power to the contrar
has therefore predestined, by an
ble decree, all tiiose to whom I
this efficacious grace, to the atn
of beatitude. His foreknow]
also explained as the knowledg
own determination through w
events, even contingent, are mi
tain.

This system has a certain h^
ical finish and completeness a
and it appears to vindicate the i
dominion of Grod over all coi
existences, second causes, and
taking place in time, more eff
than any other. It fails, how
reconcile with the attributes
the freedom of the created will
state of probation. For, accoi
t^s system, the will, although
librium, and intrinsically cap
motion to either side, cannot pi
out of equilibrium by its own
tcrmining power, but needs a p
efficacious concurrence of th<
will, in order to pass from the p(
ity of choice to the act of choic
acts of the created will are, tfa
determined by the will of God
cient cause. If this is consist!
the liberty which is necessary
created will, that it may be soo
con-creative cause in concurrct
the first cause to the effect of
beatitude, God could infallibly
mine all rational creatures to bi
without infringing on their Ubei
creature could evolve into act
causative activity, free-will cc
ccive its fullest scope, the prin
merit and reward could be fullj
plified in the universe, without
the eternal destiny of a single ;
ual, or permitting even the sma
to be committed. It become
difficult, then, on this hypothesii
plain the permission of sin, \
eternal loss of so many million
tional creatures. The reaaon
given, that sin is an evil inci<
necessary to a system, of probati

/V»UfM ofA§Aff9.

I aoooant of the greater good
thnnigfa the probation of free-
to the ground, and we hare
t seen any other Batis&ctorj
ibBtitnted for it.
f be true that, without this
is, the foreknowledge of God
supreme dominion over his
are more incomprehensible.
> dedsive acgoment, however,
that these divine attributes
lown to be intelligible without
i^pothesis.

in regard to the divine forc-
;e, it is argued that Grod can-
e that which is purely depend-
& created will, unless there is
90 or ground of certainty that
hall actually place the effect
areseen. This cause or ground
ty can only be the divine de«
ya to concur efficaciouslyA^ith
hat it may infallibly place the
ict.

B it is replied, that God fore-
mtingent, future events, by a
mowledge called the super-
nsion of cause. Knowing
J all causes, he knows all
ets in them. This does not
lowever, his knowledge of the
mining acts of the will, since
the same cause is in equili-
opposite effects. It is better
I, we think, by the theory
I, that God sees all things in
cdve verity. He knows with
all that depends on the self-
ng action of free«will, because
J beholds the free-will deter-
lelf. There ib no succession
He coexists from eternity
temity to all. the successive
^ created duration. What we
6 is equally visible to God in
irith the past. There is no
sohy, therefore, in his knowing
eternity all future contingent
laa there is in our knowing
if these events in the time of
I place^ or after it has hap-

; in further argued, if God
lacti of hif creatures by an

immediate visioQ of them in their ob-
jective verity, he is perfected by the
creature, which is incompatible with
his essence. Gk>d is the adequate ol>-
ject of his own intelligence ; therefore
he knows all things in -himself.

God is the adequate and sole object
of his own intelligence in the act of
simple intelligence in which his essen^
tial being in the Three Persons is con-
stituted. Created existences are not
included in this act, and the knowledge
of them is not perfective of the being
of God. God knows them in himself
by the knowledge of vision, tdentia
visicnisy and sees them in himself as in
a mirror. This perfection of vision, by
which God sees and knows all things
which exist, is a perfection proceeding
from his infinite intelligence, not given
to him by the creature. The creature
is its terminus, but the changes of the
terminus affect itself alone, and do not
make the essential attribute of God less
immutable or infinite. The same ob-
jection might be made to the statement,
that created existences are the termi-
nus of the divine volition or love.
The essential act of volition or love is
completed in the act of God ad introj
or his infinite love of himself. Yet
Gkxi loves the creature, delights in the
love of the creature, wills the beati-
tude of the creature. That he may
do this, the existence of the creature
as the terminus of his volition is ne ■
cessary as the conditio sine qud wnu
It might be. said, then, that the exist-
ence of the creature, and his act in
loving God, is perfective of God. It
is not. For it is altogether distinct
from that which is the terminus of the
divine act of love, in which the per-
fection of the being of God is consti-
tuted, viz.: from the essence of God
itself. God has the plenitude of love
in himself, and it remains the same
whether more or fewer created exist-
ences are its recipients. So the in-
finite power of vision in God is the
same, whether more or fewer created
existences or acts of existing agents
come within its scope. There is no
objection, therefore, to the theory »•

J^rMmt ^/lk§J§§.

specting the sdeiioe of Goi which
maintaiiiB that he knows all foture
ooDtingei^ta which depend entirely on
his diyine i decree in that decree, all
that depend on second caMses deter-
mined of necessity to produce certain
effects in his supercomprehcnsion of
cause, and all that depend on free-will
in his foresight of the sdf-determina-
&oik of iree-wilL The whole incom-
prehensibili^ of this foreknowledge is
reduced to an identity with the essen-
tial incomprehensibili^ of Grod, as
eternal and as coexisting to all the
saccessive periods of time.

Secondly, as regards the divine
sapremacy oyer creation, and the
alulity of the Sovereign Creative
Spirit to bring the universe to an end
predetermined by himself.

It is argued, that if we reject the
Thomist hypothesis, we reduce every-
thing to the hap-hazard of capricious,
eccentric, lawless free-will, which
makes it impossible to suppose any
plan regularly and infallibly carried
out through the medium of second
causes, in the universe.

This is not so. Free-will is not
mere lawless caprice, directed by mere
aoddent. It is directed by intelligence,
and acts according to the law of mo-
tives. It must choose the good, and
can never choose that which is evil,
roHoM mdlL Since, by a law of its
probation, the real chief good and the
apparent chief good are presented be-
fore it in such a way as to leave it in
equilibrium toward both, without any
dominant or necessitating motive to-
ward either, it makes the motive on
one side preponderant by its exercise
of self-dominion. This is not by
chance or caprice. It is by the exex^
dse of intellect, and through the im-
pulse of powerful motives. Its circle
of variability is restricted, and its de-
termination is capable of being influ-
enced by intellectual and mpnil con-
siderations. It is perfectly evident that
a man, even without the slightest pow-
er of exercising any determining in-
fluence on the wills of other men, can
neveithelessy without infringing on

their perfect liberty, i
a co-operation with himael
ing out a plan, or persuade
it by proving its advaata
them. Much mwe, then, i
to bring a sufficient rnunbei
and men to a Yolnntary o
with himself to secure the
his great design. It is ii
that God manifests his infin
and divine art, by arranging
with such consummate an<
skill and harmony, and di
things from end to end by s
far-reaching Providence, fl
able to bring out in the end
ed result, through the cone
free, con-creative second <
may be said that, since
were free to reject the beat
fered to them, God, in crei
and giving them this freedoi
his plan to the risk of being
ly thwarted by their unanii
sal to comply with the tern
prdbation. The same mig
said of mankind.

We must understand, hov
although Almighty Grod dc
liberate, change, modify, ws
suits, make experiments, pi
perience, devise new expet
a man of creative genius, an
his creative art is one, s
from eternity, yet it includ
in an eminent mode all tb
tions of the finite intelligenoi
impossible supposition, Grod
gated creative wisdom and
created spirit, such as tl
fancied the Logos, and othf
miurgus, to be ; and this nu|
gcnce had proceeded to e
task in the same manner,
grander scale, that men ex<
undertakings, and we shoi
or to describe the way in n
complished his work, we si
a correct though imperfect
tion of the actual operation <
ty Grod in the execution of
ad extra. The conceptia
able to form of the opcrafti
are all analogical We o

PhMenu of ike Affe.

S97

leend tbese analogies. And althou<^h
we know them to be imperfect and in-
adequate, yet we know also that they
have all the verisimilitude necessarj
to give 119 true conceptions. In this
waj we understand that God knew
all the risks to which his plan was ex-
posed^ and made provision for them.
Wherever it was necessary, he pro-
tected his desicpis from the risk of
Ware through the non-ccmcurrencc of
leoond causes. For instance, having
determined to create a heaven con-
tuning a multitude of beatified spirits,
md foreseeing that a certain number
df those who were destined to tliis
bigh position would forfeit it by sin,
be took this into the account in dctcr-
nining the nomber to be created, and
the conditions of the trial through
wluch they were to pass. A profound
theologian, who was of the strict
Thmnist school, the late Bishop of
Philadelphia, expressed to the author
on one occasion the opinion, that only
the lower orders of angels were made
liable to sin. He thought that tlic
higher orders received a grace incom-
patible with sin, though not with merit,
and that Lucifer was therefore the
dnef, not of the Seraphim, but of the
Archangels. On this supposition, the
wk of sin was confined within nar-
row limits, so far as the angels were
eoncemed. "Whether this be a well-
poonded hypothesis or not, it is evi-
dm that these pure and exalted
^Mrits, possessing the highest natural
hrtelligsnce, being impelled to good by
their nature, having received the gill
^ lopematural grace, and having the
Pnupect of a still greater glory before
then, were very likely, speaking after
t bnman mode of thought, to make
fc requisite act of concurrence with
the divine will and thus secure their
^nnation in grace. In other words,
there appears to be an d priori proba-
hiEty that at least a great number of
them would do so. We know that, in
point of fact, a great number of them
did, and* according to the common
opinion, much the lai^gest portion of
Ae whole number who were tried.

Now, this to us apparent probability
was a certainty to God, as clearly
known before as after the fact. In
view of this certainty he created them
and placed them in the state of proba-
tion. He foreknew, also, how many
would fail, and therefore, if his pur-
poses required it, could easily create
such a multitude that the angols who
fell would not be missed from their
ranks. Those who fell did indeed
thwart the benevolent designs of God,
BO far as their own particular persons
were concerned. But these designs
were conditional, as respecting indi-
viduals, and were made in full view of
the actual evenL God could not be
thwarted or disappointed in regard to
hirt grand design, because this did not
depend on any particular individuals.
So in regard to men. Jesus Christ
as man, and the Blessed Virgin, on
whom the fulfilment of the divine
plan absolutely depended, were abso-
lutely predestined, and rendered im-
peccable ; Jesus Christ by nature, and
the Blessed Virgin by grace. If any
other particular individuals were plac-
ed in a position which required it.
they loo received a grace which gave
them immunity from any liability to
fail in their necessary concurrence with
the divine will as second causes. A
vast multitude of human beings are
elevated to beatitude without running
any of the risks of probation. Adam,
it is true, was able to thwart the first
design of God in regard to the mode
of bringing the race to its destination.
But he could not thwart God's ulti^
mate design, because he was able to
accomplish it by another mode. Par.
ticular men, in vast numbers, are
able to thwart the designs of God to-
ward themselves. But they cannot
thwart his designs toward the race.
For he is able to regulate and order
times, events, and circumstances, and
to continue creating generation after
generation, until, by moral means
alone, he has completed tlje number
of his saints and peopled heaven suf-
ficiently to fulfil his purpose. More-
over, if necessary, he can always

ProUnu of ihBA§9*

touch the springs of the will directlj,
and determine it to any act which ho
has positively decreed must be per-
formed. He can also modify, restrict,
alleviate, set aside, or shorten the
risks of probation, according to his
own good pleasure, in regard to any
or all of men, with an infinite and in-
fallible wisdom.

But it is again argued, that accord-
igg to this view, God is not the absolute
cause of all things, nor the absolute
sovereign over all things. The crea-
ted will has an independent sovereign-
ty of its own, and (xod is dependent in
certain things on his creatures, obliged
to modify his plans and to condition
his decrees to suit their determina-
tions. .

This is not a conclusive argument
It is a maxim of philosophy, that causa
causes est causa causati ; the cause of
a cause is the cause of that which is
caused; u «., caused by this second
cause. God is the creator of free-
will, and his perpetual influx gives it
always the power of choosing and
acting. Free-will is not, therefore,
an independent, but a delegated and
dependent sovereign. God can de-
prive it of the opportunity of choosing,
or frustrate its determinations. It is
sovereign within a limited sphere, be-
cause God has chosen to create it and
give it sovereignty.

If God is absolute sovereign, can
he not concede to a creature the pow-
er to do his own will within a certain
sphere, if it his sovereign pleasure to
do so ? Can he not determine to do
certain things on the condition that
the creature uses his free-will in a
certain way, if be pleases ? He has
pleased to do it. He has made his
eternal decrees with a full view of all
that his creatures would do before
him* All the incidental and partial
evil resulting from the misuse of free-
will in the universe he has foreseen,
and determined to permit. He has
decided on his great plan, notwith-
standing the incidental evil, in view
of a greater universal good. Not
that ain and evil are necessary means

of the greatest good, or direc
duce to a greater good thi
which ^ould exist in a univer
out sin; but that the conoea
the liberty on a grand scale, 1
ticuhir and incidental misuse c
occasions sin and evil, is the ni
means to that greater good
greater good itself is the ob
homage, love, service, and
given to God by a multitmle *
tures who have been lef^ free
and who have not sinned, or nc
irremediably and finally.

We conclude, therefore, p
torum virorum who have ma
it, tliat the theory of the strict 1
on this point is not conclusive]
lished. To our mind, the
which is in accordance with i
losophy of the great fathers
St. Thomas, with that of the
in the middle ages, and with
the most prevalent Catholic
since the Jansenist controvcrs
more probable one. Accoi
this theory, in a system of stj
bation, a physical premotioi
grace efficacious in se and a3tn
is not metaphysically nece£
order that free-will may actm
cur with the divine will to se
permanence of the creature in
natural state. Nothing is ni
beyond liberty of choice s
grace which gives power I
supernatural acts. When tb
passed through their probatioi
fore, we cannot go behind tlie
of their liberty in choosing o
in^ the proffered boon of
glory, to seek a deeper cans
mining some to choose and n
mining others. They were
choose ; and being free, son:
wisely and well, others foolL
ill. So, also, with Adam. £
have stood, but he did n
had the power to choose,
chose wrongly. By the ve
power he might have chosen
without any additional grao
arhitrium mentis^ the exerciM
•elf-dominion, is the only rea

ProUims of ike Afft.

can be given. This prcrogati\'o is
Meed myBterioas and inscratablo.
We do not pretend to have removed
all difficaltj of comprehending it.
Bat it 18 incomprehensible to us in
our present state of imperfect intelli-
gence, because the soal ititelf is on in-
aeratable mystery. Its relation to the
divine will and operation is a mystery
fan of inexplicable difficulties. But
it ifl because of that ground mystery
of mysteries, the coexistence of God
and the creation, which was the in-
soloble enigma of all ancient philoso-
phv. The great Aristotle saw the
difficalty so clearly which is involved
in the relation of a contingent world
(0 the necessary being of Grod, that,
Dnable to find an ideal formula which
coold anite the two terms by a dialectic
relatioD,he denied all relation between
them. He affirmed the existence of
God and of the world. But he affirm-
ed also, that tho world exists inde-
pendently of God, 08 self-existent,
etenial, and necessary. Moreover,
that God has or can have no know-
ledge of the world. For, he argued,
God can have no knowledge of the
world unless the world is the object
orteraiinus of the divine intelligence.
Bat if the world is the object of the
olivine intelligence, God is not perfect
M inteUigence in himself alone, but is
nnditioned and perfected by that
which is inferior to his own being.
^^ we see that the objection to the
^Moi foreknowledge of the contin-
gent in its objective verity which is
^Rmd in scholastic theology, is one
derived from AristoUe, and that the
fitremely subtle and acute reason-
ingi of St. Thomas and the Thomists
w^ directed toward a reconciliation
^ the Aristotelian philosophy with
^ Catholic dogmas. The difficulty
JKi in the creative act of God, which
> a mystery not fully comprehensible
\j human reason, and, therefore^ not
Wly to be explained by any hypo-
*^» or theory of philosophy. Tlie
■ttirifcy of free-will as concurrent, con-
clave caase with Gk)d approaches
^ Mtmt of anything in creation to

the creative act of God, and, therefore,
is tho most mysterious and incompre-
hensible fact of psychology. It is in-
comprehensible in itself, and it compli-
cates still further the incomprehensi-
bility of tho creative act of God. It
is not strange, therefore, that thero
should have been such a long and
BtiU unsettled controversy in the
Catholic schools respecting this topic,
since the church has hitherto abstained
from deciding it Still less can wo
wonder that non- Catholic schools, hav-
ing no fixed dogmas or authoritative^
formulas of doctrine to check the spirit
of private speculation, go round and
round continually, involving them-
selves more hopelessly every day in
entanglements from which they can
never extricate themselves.

Tho explanation we have endeavor-
ed to set forth as Hie most probable
will, we think, commend itself to the
minds of most of our readers as tho
most intelligible and satisfactory
which can be given. If a better one
can be furnished by some ono more
competent to the task, we shall wel-
come it. Meanwhile, we leave what
we have written to find what accept-
ance it may.

It will be seen at once, by those
who are at all versed in these matters,
that, according to the theory we have
proposed, the predestination of those
who attain eternal life as the term of
a period of probation is consequent on
tho foresight of their iidelity and mer-
it, at least as a general rule. It does
not follow from this, however, that we
reject the doctrine of efficacious grace.
As this doctrine is immediately con-
nected with the points we have been
examining, we will give it a brief con-
sideration now, in order to avoid re-
turning to it hereafUir.

In the Thomist theology, efficacious
grace means a grace distinct in its
own nature from sufficient grace.
Sufficient grace gives tho power to
elicit a supernatural act, efficacious
grace gives the act itself. It is there-
fore efficacious tn $e and ah intrinseco.
This notion of efficacious grace is de-

800

AFoblmu cyA$Jg$.

rtred from the philosophical notion of
the previous and efficadons concur-
rence of the will of Grod with every
act of free-will, in the exercise of the
facnlty of choice. According to this
philosophy, it is impossible for this
faculty, as it is for every second cause
in potentia to its proper act, to pass
from potentiality into act without a
special movement from the first cause.

The contrary hypothesis, sostained
by Molina, the great body of the Jes-
uit theologians, Thomassinos, and the
generality of modem Catholic authors,
is, that the grace which is auziliaty
to the will in eliciting free supernatu-
ral acts, is not efficacions ab ifUnnseeOf
but is made efficacious by the concur-
rence of free-will. This implies a dif-
ferent notion of divine concurrence
from the one just stated, according to
which the influx of divine power into
free, spontaneons, active second caus-
es gives merely an aid which is inde-
terminate, leaving free-will to its own
election among two or more termi
upon which it can direct this indeter-
minate aid. When an artilleryman
sights his gun, the divine power which
supports and gives efficiency to all nat-
ural laws and forces must propel the
balL But this divine power stands
ready at his disposal, and will propel
the ball in whatever direction, toward
whatever point, he selects. So it is
with the choice of free-will.

We have already indicated our ad-
hesion to this latter hypothesis. It is
far more in accordance with the doc-
trine of the Fathers, Latin as well
as Greek, including St. Augustine
hunself, than the other. The former
one was wholly unknown to the Greek
Fathers, and does not appear in the
Latin Fathers bofore the Pekgian
controversy. Even after this period
it appears, in the writings of St.
Augustine and others of his school, in
an entirely different form from that
which was given to it by St. Thomas.
That is to say, it is applied to the case
of fallen man, who is supposed to
need an efficacious grace on account
of the weakness of his will, and to re-

ceive it as a special gift of
through Christ The perse^e
those angels who stood their t
cessfuUy is attributed, not to
efficacious ab uUrin$eeo^ whi
withheld from the other angel
a right use of the same grao
was equally conceded to i
abused by some. So, also, th<
Adam is attributed simply
failure of concurrence with :
which needed only his concnn
order to become efficacious, 1
frustrated of its effect by his i
his own free^wilL Moreover,
St. Augustine says about efl
grace in fallen num is reco
with the docrine of oongru
sometimes directly Aivors i
proved by Antoine and othi
have written in vindication of 1
logy from Jansenist perversion
doctrine of congruity has bee
duced in order to explain moi
factorlly the perfect liberty of t
without denying the existence
cacious grace differing tn acth
or antecedently to the conseni
will, from grace merely sufficie
though the opinion that the
efficacy of divine grace is to Ix
exclusively in the consent of
has not been condemned, it hai
theless been received with i
and generally rejected. It i
monly taught that God conferc
ever he pleases, upon men, i
which infallibly secures their <
ation, and their final persei
In our view, this doctrine can
tained by ample and certain
from Scripture and Tradition
the only one which can be con
developed in consonance with
cisions of the church, espedall
of the Council of Trent pet
final perseverance.* The reai

• 81 quit magnum iUud utque injtnsw
anticB donum se certo haMturum, abaota
Ubili ecrvltudine dixerit^ etc. A. 8.

U any one ihall lay that he will cert
that great gift of perg^Mranet to tk4 m
Ahtolute and infallible certitude, etc

Si quU dlzerit, JustlAcaiom Tel itoe wpi
UioDeHa accepU JostUlaperatveiwe po
eo Don posM. A. &

If anjooethallMylMlh* :

J^roihKU of ike Age.

801

noes are actually infiillible in
ttBiB to be found in their con-
the character, dispoBition, and
aces of the subject^ndin their
u The necessity for them is
physical but a moral neces-
te fragility of our nature is
ty alibDugh a grace merely

makes us metaphysically
f persevering without sin, we
to become wearied, and
Qckleness, weakness of pur-
wgeableness, etc., to break
mewhere. Our own con-
I and experience teach us
leed a diylne and protecting
aoompass us continually and

against ourselves, and they
I to utter that prayer of the
ituigy: ^ Gompelle, Domine,
oluntates nostras :*' ^ Com-
jord, our rebellious wills."
y knows human nature per*
n, ia a thousand ways, by

the circumstances of life,
^ or prolonging it, regulating
nces which act on the char-
iring or terrifying the heart,
ng the mind, impelling with-
:ing the will, and adapting
Qces with infinite wisdom to
il state of the soul, convert

will, sanctify whom he will,
ererance to whom he will,
gain his point with the free
nd concurrence of the crea-
Non est volentis neque cur-
1 miserentis est Dei :" '' It
him who willeth or of him
etb, but of God who showeth

The difiSculty may still be
bat God withholds these

congruity and the gifl of
nee from those who do not
i Instance accept the profibr-
or who do not finally perse-
It this is removed by the

ably and strenuously advo-
St. Alphonsus Liguori, that
grace is sufficient to enable
ij fervently and do ordinary

ttipidal aid qf Ood, peraerere in the

1 rwdred, or ean not penerere with It,
dtrthtbu. JMIuUif, Cu. 16-9&

good acts ; and that by prayer, with
the use of other facile means, effica-
cious graces and the gifl of persever-
ance may be infallibly obtained from
God.

We may now return to our theme
of the state of probation originally es-
tablished by God for those who were
made candidates for supernatural
glory. TVe have endeavored to clear
our track of difficulties impeding the
clear view of the truth that G(^ es-
tablished this probation through good-
ness and love, or with the simple riew
of communicating the greatest good to
the creature.

The principal questions respecting
probation having been already discuss-
ed, there remains now but oqc, viz. :
what was the precise and specific na-
ture of the trial to which rational na-
ture was subjected. This divides itself
again into two, one respebting the trial
of the angels and the other respecting
the trial of man.

The angels, according to the doc-
trine of St. Thomas and theologians
generally, were created at the summit
of inteUigent being, incapable of error
or false judgment in their natural, in-
tellectual operation, and therefore im-
peccable in the natural order. Super-
natural grace- was conferred upon
them simultaneously witii their crea-
tion, although, as F. Bllluart holds,
they may have concurred actively to
the reception of this grace, by a spon-
taneous act preceding all deliberation.
Grace made them capable of eliciting
supernatural acts, but did not deter-
mine them to those acts without the
free concurrence of their wilL Their
intelligence must have been, thereforCi
lefl in a certain obscurity as regards
the supernatural object, in order that
an error of judgment should be possi-
ble, or even an a6t of deliberation ter-
minating in a free volition. What the
precise object of deliberation and
choice was cannot be certainly and
precisely determined. It must in some
way have presented the alternative of
either eliciting a supernatural aqt by
the aid of the obscure supernatural

802

I¥oN8m oflheAge.

Bghty or of (klliDg back on the free,
natand operation of intelligence. God
^mnst have exacted some act of hom-
age to his sovereign will, disclosed
some condition as the indispensable
prerequisite to obtuntng the crown of
supernatural glorj, which the natural
intelligence of the angels could not see
to be just and right without the aid of
a supernatural light This light was
given, clear enough to enable the will,
by a strong voluntary efibrt, to deter-
mine itself to act by this light, in
preference to its natural b'ght; dim
enough to allow the will to turn from
it voluntarily, and find in its natural
light a plausible reason for withhold-
ing its submission to the supreme wilL
Certain passages of Scripture, and
the common traditional Catholic doc-
trine, indicate that the angels who
fell, fell through pride, and that Luci-
fer, in particular, their chief spirit, in
some way aspired to a resembhince
with God. Some have thought that
he desired to become God. St. Thomas,
however, says that this is impossible,
because his intelligence was too per-
fect to permit him to conceive such a
thought He explains the sin of the
angels to have consisted in a refusal
to accept supernatural glory as a pure
boon from God, and a wish to attain
beatitude by the exertion of their own
natural powers.

The most plausible supposition, in
our view, is one that may be said to
be contained under the more generic
statement just given. It is, namely,
that the angels were tried by the rev-
(^lation of the Incarnation. The union
of the Second Person of the Trinity
with human nature,the elevation of hu-
man nature to divine glory and honor,
the obligation of doing homage to
Jesus Christ, as King, and to the
Blessed Virgin, his mother, as Queen
of Angels, was revealed, as the crucial
test of the absolute obedience of the
celestial spirits. According to their
natural reason, and natural love of
their own natura and kind, it would
appear to them a viohition of order
and justice to pass them by, in order
to assume an inferior nature partly

corporeal and mnimal, into a 1
union with the Godhead ;
this nature above their o^
was the highest in the natn
Supernatural light snggeste
that God, as sovereign, had
bestow his supematorsd gift
ing to his own will, and, as
wise, must have a secret r
apparently inverting the ord
ture in establishing the sup
order of the universe. Tl
voluntarily submitted them
the decree of God were rem
an illumination which dis
them the wisdom and goodm
decree of the Incarnation,
glory which they themselvei
as Ibe whole universe woul
from it; and thus became
for ever of erring in their jud
specting the highest good,aj
quently of swervmg from it
sin. Those who fell tun
minds away from the sup
light toward the consideratioi
own private good, and the
their own persons and their o
They revolted at the idea
subordinated to human natur
sired that the angelic natm
be the subject of the hyposta
Lucifer, in particular, as th
desired that he himself mig
sumed into union with the Y
alted to the throne of the
and deified. He and his i
demanded it from God as a i
to their natural dignity, and
belled against his sovereign
were cast out of the celestia
and forfeited for ever the cro
pcmatural glory. Hence the
to the Incarnate Word, to tlH
Virgin Mary, and to the hue
Hence their efforts to establ
own supremacy over man,
continual conflict which I
angels and the children of
earth must wage against
the sacred warfare for the tri
Christ*8 kingdom upon eartl
brings us to the oonsidei
human probation, a l0[Me wl
bo reserved for a fbtoie num'

jn$9oi-PtntU%f%ff»

808

F^om TIm DubUn UnlT«nltj Mig»iln«i

MISSAL-PAINTING.*

The review of monastic literature
which we can present in tiie limited
ipace of a single paper must neces-
Barilj be a concise and condensed one,
a mere skeleton of the superstructure,
not exhaustive but rather suggestive
of the sources where information maj
be found by others who may care to
investigate the merits or demerits of
a subject about which there have been
SDch vaiying representations. A
complete hbtorj of monastic litera-
ture would occupy as many volumes
as this essay will pages, for it would
not only necessitate a review of cer-
tain portions of the literature of every
civilized country in Europe, but to a
great extent at some periods of the
whole of European literature. The
materials of history, the hymnology
of the church, the elements of sci-
ence, art, and the very woof, as it
were, of modem literature, were all
banded down to us by that great in-
ititution, whose fate as it chanced in
England we are endeavoring to de-
lineate. We have hitherto striven to
nake this investigation a fair and
impartial one, based upon facts not
19 represented by the biassed pens of
Protestant historians, but upon facts
gleaned almost entirely from the
works of men who lived and died in
the bosom of that church of which
this institution was the cherished
offspring. Still more unreasonable is
the prejudice of many who refuse to

• AmOcriaet: PlinU N&t Ulit; Cornel. Ncptvii;
fllimMat Gambrcnalt: AnglU Sacra; Ummptim**
GkND.; Humphr^a^ Art of Illumination and
lllamliiat««l Books of the Uiddle Ages ; Svlvotro
Phl^ognphle UnlTertelle (Sir V. Madden'i edition) ;
Mnrmlori Antiq. lUl. Medinvl ; Lanzl Hint, of I'aint-
Iflff; Bddlnucd Notisie; FroifMtrt** Chronlclet;
Mis. Jamlwon'a Life of Our Lord ; Cotton. h\^.—

L B ir.— FkuaUna, B vl.>-Oalt>a, A x vlil.— Nero,
G lr.~Ttbar. A IL, tL— Ve«p. A L ; HarleUn MS&
»»i, UOS. lOSi, 8900, 2840. SWft4, »8»i Bib. Itegta,
• A ulL, 1 D L,S A ZTiiL, and 8 B viL

award any meed of praise to the
literary labors of roonasticism, who
look upon the monk as a lazy, sen-
sual, selfish misanthrope, who have
heard of the dark ages and are there-
with satisfied that they must have
been totally dark ^ intellectual ob-
stinates who wilfully shut their eyes
and maintain there is no light. We
may have doctrinal prejudices, theo-
logical prejudices, social prejudices,
against monasticism, but these things
ought not to prevent a reasoning man
from paying his homage to the genius
which may be found in its works.
Grenius is universal ; it is not confined
to any doctrine, for it is found in all
doctrines ; it is not limited to any
age, for it is common to all ages ; it
does not flourish merely under en-
lightened and free governments, for
it has lived triumphant through tho
dull oppression of tyranny ; riches
cannot create it nor poverty crush it
out : it is bom in the hovel ; it is
nurtured on bleak mountains ; it
will flourish even under the weary
trainin;:; of indigence and wasting
toil: like air, liglit, and beauty, it is
the free, the unbought gift of God.

We have already in a former chap-
ter described the scriptorium, or room
adjoining the library, where books
were copied and multiplied by monks
chosen for that work. We will only
add to that description what we
glean from the rule of St. Victoiv-
that no visitors were allowed to go
into the scriptorium except the abbot,
the prior, the sub-prior, and the pre-
centor — that the abbot ordered what
books were to be transcribed, and
that the writers were appointed by
him. At all periods it was a great
ambition amongst the monks to be a

804

good transcriber and decorator of
manuscripts. Not only was it a
matter of distinction but a sure path
to promotion ; many who have worked
well in the scriptorium were rewarded
for their services with abbacies and
bishoprics. In the thirteenth cen-
tury a monk of the monastery of St
Swithin, at Winchester, was recom-
mended for the vacant abbacy of
Hyde, as being well versed in the
glosses of the sacred text, a skilful
writer, a good artist, and clever at
painting initial letters.

In this scriptorium was cultivated
and brought to perfection an art
which has been the admiration of all
subsequent ages, but which printing
completely swept away, and failed to
supply anything adequate in its place
— that art is called illumination. It
has a career of its own, and a value
as a beautiful eloquent monument in
the history of the church, and under
these two phases we shall proceed
to investigate this first part of the
literary kbor of monasticism.

The art of illuminating manuscripts
was not, as has been supposed, origi-
nated by Christianity, though it was
brought to perfection under its sway.
There are two periods in its history,
the first goes far back into the
remote past, to the times of the
Egyptian papyri, sixteen centuries
before Christ, and the second period
commences with the chrysography
or writmg in gold of tlic Greek manu-
scripts, between the fiflh and eighth
centuries after Christ. The more
ancient rolls of Egyptian papyri are
written in red, with a reed, decorated
by rude drawings similarly traced,
representing mystical scenes of the
Egyptian mytliology — some of these
papyri, however, are of liigiier fiuisli,
being elaborately painted, gilded, and
extending to the length of sixty feet.
There is preserved in the museum of
the Louvre a specimen of the plain
style of papyrus, ornamented with
illustrations, drawn in outline. It
is said to be one of those rituals which
ate oAoD fband enclosed in mummy

coffins; it is about forty fiwt in
length, and is in a good state of pra-
ervation. There are directions on it
for the illuminator, such as were
adopted also by the Christian pen-
men. In the comer of the space left
for illumination there was inserted a
small sketch of the subject to guide
the artist The French recovered
also a specimen of the superior kind
of papyri at Thebes, in 1798.* It con-
sists of a number of religipus scenes,
comprising many figures of human
beings and animals, drawn with a
pen, and brilliantly colored. It ii
about forty-four feet in length,
though imperfect It is more thaa
probable also that the Bomans had
some knowledge of the art of illas-
trating manuscripts. The passage
usually quoted in support of this
theory occurs in the Natural Histoiy
of Pliny,t where we are told that
Varro wrote the lives of 700 Romans,
which he illustrated with their por-
traits. But there is also an account
of a similar work by Fomponliu
Atticus, recorded by Cornelius Nepos,
who tells us that Atticus wrote
about the actions of the great
men of Rome, which descriptions he
ornamented with their portraits.]* It
is impossible to fix the time when the
art of Christian illumination sprung
up, but most probably it occurred when
the ancient fashion of rolled manu-
scripts gave way to something more
like the present book form ; that is, in-
stead of one long narrow sheet of some
forty or sixty feet, a number of square
sheets pkced upon each other, and
sewn together at the back. The an-
cient manuscripts were rolled either

* Published entire by Uie Imperial GoTeniBicBt, ta
a wr>rk called Detcriptlon de rfi^jple, 1919.
t Marcui Varro beolgnlsslmo inTeoto, Iiiflei11i\»'
linRraft

lutnlnum Buorum fccandlUtl non nominll

scptlngcntorum lUuitrlum sed et allqao aiodo imaf'
infbus noa passut Intercldcre flguras ant Ttiaitalem
a!vl contra homloei ralere, Inrentor mnnerii tilaa
dlh InTldlosl, quando Immortalltatem noa mIwi
dedlt rerum etlam In omnet terraa mlalt ul ynmnUm
eue ubl([ue et claudi poMent.— PuBU : IraL Bid.
lib. xxxr., c 2.

X Namqiie yerslbnt qal honoret reramqot |
rum ainplitiidine ceteroR RomanepopaU in amlU
exposuit: ita ut tub •Ingulorum imasiiilbiM
magtatratufl qnl coram non ampUiu qnaHcrala adt
nlire renlbua dlicrlpaerU.— Oow. N«. : Atttmm*

Mkml-I^mmiing*

80S

I or two roUen. The second
& adopted for the conyeoience
iader, who might roll off his
ipt as he read it from one to
' ; thus one roller was placed
id of the MS* round which it
^'d first, then a second roller
shed to the commencement of
and upon this the reader roU-
a he read ; it was the duty of
rians to roll it back again for
^nienceof tlicnextrea<kr. As
lis mode prevailed there could
borate painting or gilding of
ich as we are familiar with,
s attested by the fact that the
this rolled form which were
rom Herculaneum and Pom-
I no trace of decoration* But
)iy earliest specimens of the
a which came into vogue ear-
second century of the Christ-
here were decorations of va-
grees of richness. The Dis-
D the Vienna Library, and the
d Virgil of the Vatican, said
been executed in the fourth
are among the earliest spe-
fiUuminated MSS. Still the
I prevailed in these, the deco-
Q the Discorides being very
Mt absent altogether in the
hilst the miniatures are large
r. Decoration, however, was
t in that early time, for St.
who lived in the fourth cen-
iplains of the abuse of this art
; up books with ornamented
stters of an enormous size, it
vre in this fourth century that
\ marked advance in the art of
km. The most valuable books
Iten in gold and silver inks by
rho were called chr3r8ographl ;
m was stuned with rose color-
cple die, to throw up the gold
sr letters. One of the most
nthorities on the text of the
Btament is the version by Ul-
le Gk>thic bishop, who lived in
' part of the fourth century. A
tUs in letters of silver, with
li in gold, was executed in the
aij, and k now preserved in

TOU IV. 20

the royal library at TTpsal, nnder the
well*known title of the Godex At-
genteus. Some of the MSS. of thit
period were written on a bine ground
in silver, with the name of God in
gold. This magnificent form of copy-
ug was devoted principally to the Gos-
pels and Scriptures generally. To this
succeeded as an influence of Byzantine
luxury the style of writing on a gilded
ground in letters of black. During
these early periods miniatures formed
the principal features of the ornamen-
tation, but toward the seventh centur}',
two centuries after the fall of Rome, a
change came over the style of art, and
miniatures gradually gave way to more
elaborate decoration. In this age, too,
the initial letter sprang up. In the
most ancient manuscripts it was not
distinguished from the text, but fW>m
the seventh to the eleventh century
separate capital letters of a large size
wero the characteristics of the volumes
most decorated. It is to this period
that the origin of the various schools
of illumination may be traced. Rome
had succumbed to barbarian violence,
and her arts, though decaying, still ex-
erted an influence upon this new style
of painting, then in its infancy. That
influence was naturally stronger in
Italy, and therefore the early illumina-
tions of the Italian school bear traces
of the old Boman style. In France
the same influence was manifest, mix-
ed u^ with national peculiarities, and
this school was consequently called the
Franco-Roman. Miniatures now wero
gradually displaced by intricate oraa-
mentation, interlaced frotwork, or twin-
ing branches of white or gold, on a
background of variegated colors. But
far away in the distant west, in a coun-
try which had never been under Bo-
man domination, and was theroforo
free from Boman influence, a style of
art rose up of a puroly origins! char-
acter. Historical research has placed
it beyond question that in these re-
mote times Ireland was far in advance
of other nations in the scale of civili-
zation. Her fame had extended over
Europe, her monasteries wero adorned

ao6

JOmat-PakUmg.

with men of great pietj and learning,
yrho were the tramers of the leading
spirits of the age. She was the first to
break through the dense darkness of
the times, and as she gave Christianity
to Scotland, so she also imparted to the
Saxons the art of illnmination. The
▼eiy earliest mention we have in the
history of oar country of an illumina-
tor is of DagsBUS, abbot of Iniskeltra,
who lived in the early part of the sixth
century, and died about 587. Adam-
nanus, the Saxon abbot of lona, re-
tained Genereus, who had taught illu-
mination in the Irish monasteries, to
impart that knowledge to the Saxons ;
and in the eighth century another Irish
monk, Ultan, is mentioned as having a
great reputation as an illuminator of
MSS. Bede also confirms this ^t of
Irish civilization, for he asserts that it
was the custom to send youths out of
England into Ireland to study at her
monasteries. It was from Ireland,
then, that the Anglo-Saxons learned
the art of illumination.* Later in the
tenth century, a style, peculiar and
original, was started, it is said by Dun-
stau, who was a great illuminator,
which consbted in a novel use of
the foliage, quite distinct from all
other styles. It prevailed to the end
of the Saxon rule, and is known by the
name of Opus Anglicum. One of the
finest specimens of the Anglo-Saxon
school is extant in the Cottonian libra-
ry, in the shape of the Durham Book,
or St. Cuthbert*s Grospels ; it was the
work of Eadfrith, bishop of Lisdisfame,
in honor of St. Cuthbert; its execu-
tion extended from the year 698 to
721 ; it is peculiarly a Saxon piece of
art, and belongs to that species known
as ^^ tesselated^" Giraldus Cambrensis,
who wrote in the twelfth century,
speaks of having seen a similar MS.
at Kildare, which was called The
Evang^listerium.f

* Mr. Noel Ilumphrers, in blfl beantlfbl little work
upon the Art of Illumln&tion and Missal Painting:,
bas ^ren, as a specimen of this Anglo-Hibernian
school, a page from tbe GospeU of Melbrlgld Mao
Daman, the MS. of which is preserred in the Lam-
beth MSa.

t Inter anirersa Kyldariss mlracoU nil mihi mi-
raeuloslut oocurrli quam liber (at alnni) Angelo
dlelHito etaacrlpUm OontiMt hte llb«r qaatoor

The finest speomeii of
luminatioQ of the tenth
the Duke of Devooshire^
Benedictiooal, by St.
bishop of Windbestery i
painted between 963 and
first page is a magnifioeni
a number of glorified co
was written by a monk, o
shall speak hereafter,
twelfth century decoratioi
peculiar characteristics o
tion, although some Sa
written during those pe
pictures drawn in outlin
great point in all richly
MSS. was the inidal lettei
efibrt of art was exerte
that as rich and magnific
sible. After that time w
inidal letters ornamented
drawings of the human foi
birds, etc, in addition to
which had hitherto pr
The coloring of the t
richer also, and these MS
rated with pictures w
<^ historiated,'' and led by
the fine historical illumi
subsequent centuries,
these initial letters becf
and longer, until their ta
nearly the whole length c
They were then carried
bottom, until out of this
of the initial letter arose v
ed the '< Gothic brackef*-
mentation like a clasp
n»und three sides of the pi
ing the fourteenth century
were again introduced, an
proving and becoming mc
up to the middle of the sia
tury. The Gothic brack
extended gradually, until il
braced the whole page, s

ETangelistamm Jaxta mci o u j mum
ilbi quot paginsB fere sunt tot tmarm d
coloribus distinctissima. Hie on
rideas divlnitus Impressom, hlne m
Istarum formas: nono senat nime
binas alas habent«s. Hinc acqaUa
bine bomiois Csdem inde leonlaallu
inflnitas. . . . H«e eqoldem qtt
•t dlligentias intneor Minp«r warn
■emperqoe magls ac magU •dnum
GiRALD OiMB. : T9pogr, Bibtm^ II

MkaAPdinting,

e great fiMUnres of subseqaent
don — the ^ border." In these
all kinds of salirjects were
— foliage, flowers, birds, ani-
d miniattires, and toward the
the fifteenth centorjr a back-
iras added, first in parts, and
\j entirely. A woric which
1 in the thirteenth century ex-
»weTer, a great infiuence over
3f illumination, even down to
of its decline, three centuries
It was a series of meditations
life of Christ, known as St
itora, bj John Fidenza, and
ite descriptions it gave of the
scenes of which it treated
t sort of ideal, the influence of
Day be traced in nearly all
snt treatment of similar sub-
id accounts for their general
ty. During the Byzantine
lluminating was conflned to
ipts of the Scriptures, the
f the fathers, and books for
ices in the church. To these
sn added Tolumes for private
, such as Hone, or prayers
:8 and holy days, sometimes
[issals. L^nds, history, and
dbwed, and in the fourteenth
the works of Chaucer and the
ies of Froissart opened a vast
the illuminators for the de-
of battles, sieges, religious
ies, public events, and scenes
BStic life. Some copies of
anthers also were then illus-
ntn by the end of the fifteenth
nearly every kind of formal
i was illuminated, including
, wills, indentures, patents of
statntes of foundations, and
r registers. But the printing-
■ looming in the distance, and
li^neU of this beautiful art
tolL Its fall, which was in-
was, however, gradual. Men
It be weaned at once from
imiiiated books, and a sort of
7 alliance between the two
effected. The earliest print-
a were illuminated, spaces
id been fonnerly left by the

copyist were now reserved by the
printer, and the whole woik when it
left his hands was given over to the
artist ; then the subjects were engraven
on wood, and transferred to the vellum
by means of ink and the press ; but
the manuscript style was still preserv-
ed, and the closest imitation of written
volumes was retained by the early
printers, and with such dexterity that
it is not an easy thing to detect some
of the earliest printed books from
manuscripts. Perhaps the last ^ort
to illuminate a book by the printer's
art to the extent of the older MSS.,
was an edition of the Liturgy, brought
out in 1717 by John Short, entirely
engraven on copper plates. The pages
were surrounded by borders, and em-
bellished with pictures and decorated
initial letters. Even down to the
eai'ly part of the present century books
were printed with ornamental initial
letters, and borders on the top and
bottom of each page, both of which
may be seen occasionally in the pres-
ent day, more especially in books is-
sued from presses which seek to re-
vive the antique type and style. In
concluding this portion of our sketch,
we may mention another characteris-
tic of early MS. writing which exists
in some of our books in present use.
If we take up an edition of a Greek
classic printed some forty orfifky years
ago, or even less, we shall find it
almost unintelligible, from the num-
ber of contractions used in the print-
ing ; and if we go further back still,
we shall find these contractions more
numerous. It arose in the eighth or
ninth century ; the scribes introduced
in the copying of Greek MSS. a sys-
tem of contraction called tacygraphy,
by which two, three, or more letters
were expressed by one character,
which was termed ^ nexus litterarum."
The editors of the early period of
printing adopted them in their type,
and they continued in use down to the
beginnmg of the present century.

As we have thus given a condensed
review of the histonr and development
of that most beantifol art of iUmniiia^

doe

ifijial-PatfifMgk

ing MSSm we shall proceed to de-
scribe the details of the work as it was
carried on for centuries in the yarious
monasteries in Europe. The parch-
ment was cat into sheets of the re-
quired size, and prepared for the copy-
ist in the following manner: — ^They
were first rubbed over with the pow-
dered bone of the cuttle-fish, or with
the ashes of a certain kind of bone or
wood burned and pulverized ; a wheel
with sharp teeth at equal distances
was then run down each side of the
sheet, and lines ruled across from
point to point between which the mat-
ter was to be written; it was then
handed to the scribe, who began his
work. In the ancient manuscripts
there is to be found no paging or table
of contents. The whole work was di-
vided into packets of parchment sheets,
each containing about four leaves ;
these packets were sometimes marked
with a number temporarily on the first
page, which was cut off when the whole
was bound. At the end of each sec-
tion of leaves the scribe wrote the
word with which the next section
tihould commence, a practice continued
by printers under the title of " catcli-
.yords.*' If a manuscript contained
several treatises on different subjects,
a list of contents was appended, the
initial word of each tract, and the num-
ber of sections. As soon as the copy-
ing was finished, the work of illustra-
tion commenced. Tlie outlines were
traced with a pencil made of silver, or
brass with a silver point ; then the
metallic outlines were gone over with
a fine quill pen, dipped in a prepara-
tion of lampblack and gum. There are
many MSS. extant originally intended
to be illuminated, but from some un-
known cause have come down to us in
this unfinished state of outline sketches.
The next step was to wash in the
shades with ink and water of three
degrees of strength ; at this point the
gilding was done, in order that the
burnishing might not interfere with the
colors. The raised or embossed gold
grounds were done first by laying the
metal leaf on a thick smooth bed made

of fine plaster, carefbUy ground
were then bomished, and if it wt
tended to decorate these niiie<
grounds with engravings or pi
cut in th^ metal, that was done
next stage. After this the
masses dT fiat, painted gilding
added and the colors laid on wi
utmost care as to the tint^ Tl
process, which was intrusted o
superior hands, was that of diaj
penciUing, inserting brilliant tn
of gold and white, and in fiict fin
the whole work. These two fbi
gold work, the embossed and tl
are to be found in perfection in
of the thirteenth and fourteent
turies. They prepared their gol
great care. In the fourteenth e
the gold leaf was ground widi
carefuUy washed, and the powdf
ed with gum water. In a ti
written by Theophilus,* the |
ization of gold for painting fc
difficult process; he directs th
pure gold should be filed into
and then washed with a pencil
shell of a sea fish, after which i
be milled in a mortar made of •
and tin, with a long pestle woii
a strap and wheel Then th
filings are to be milled in wa
two or three hours and gradually
ed off. The powder thus pn
was to be tempered with isingh
laid on a ground of red lead, mi»
the white of an egg ; after this
burnished with a bloodstone, a i
hum tablet being placed und
gilded picture. The Anglo-{
used to rub gold filings in a i
with sharp vinegar, and then di
them with salt and nitre. The
pal colors used, according to ll
lus, were vermilion orpiment,
green, dragon's-blood, granetm
minium, saffron, folium, bi
minium, white and black. Afti
had ground their colors on a i
porphyry, they placed them in c
glass vessels under water, wbi
only preserved them from dn

• Toor. : Dt DlTinit ArtB^HL

Mn tBm JlliuhUf m

809

m alwajv soft and ready for
be old painters never touched
Ion with iron, bnt used as
^-knife a thin blade of wood,
ade their own pencils and
the pencils being made of
tulst set in quiUs, and the
of the bristles of the white
pig, bound to a stick. When
cript had passed through all
ges of copying and illuminat-
^ to be bound, a work also
he scriptorium. The sacred
an early period were bound
two wooden boards, covered
Taved plates of gold and sil-
iff with crystals and rubies,
usual binding of volumes for
oes for the church was in the
deer, sheep, and calves, pieces
1 were stretched over the
nd the leaves were sewn to-

XIV. The schools of this art, which
sprung up from its cultivation, may be
enumerated by six denominations, as
shown in the following table :

Greek or Btzaktinb, from the
eighth to the tenth century: the
IrM'Saxon^ AngUhSaxon^ Frctncih
SaxoHy and the punting of Russia
belong to this school

Eablt BoiCAN, tenth to the four-
teenth oentuiy, which includes also
the AnglO'Nortnan.

Italian, fourteenth to sixteenth
century, including the Spanish and
Poriuffuese,

Eablt French, fourteenth to
seventeenth century, under which
may be ranged the laier English,

Flemish, German, and Dutch,
from the close of the fifteenth cen-
tury'.

Later French, during the seven-

— — — — ^ — , ^ —

Y the same material cut into teenth and eighteenth centuries.

rhe ecclesiastics were forbid-
dulge in the pleasure of the
[hough the love of that sport
uversal passion, and it was
Lt difficulty they could be re-
from joining in such diver-
it Charlemagne granted per-
9 priests to hunt for the pur-
nrocuring deer-skins to bind
Grants were made to mon-
rj other sovereigns of a cer-
ber of skins annually. The
r the covers of large service-
ire protected by plates and
' metal; there was a metal
ith a large projected hemi-
each side, and across the book
» strong loops of leather for
ise of liAing it when closed,
iee-books of the church were
\y very large, because they
)eed on a high sloping shelf,
rhkh the choristers stood

I precentor, standing behind
ned over the leaves with a

II above their heads. Such
of the details of the art of

Dg manuscripts, which flour-

tiie monasteries from the

the eighteenth centuries,

tkd in Europe under Louis

We have already remarked that a
genius for illumination and excellence
in copying were at one time sure re-
commendations for promotion. The
memory of men too who had spent
their lives in this occupation were ten-
derly cherished; and two incidents
preserved in history attesting the fact
we shall mention. Baldinucci, in his
History of Painting, gives an account
of two brethren in the Camaldulan
Monastery, Degli Angeli, at Florence,
who were most indefatigable copyists.
Dom Jacopo Fiorentino made his ap-
pearance at the Monastery of De^i
Angeli, in the year 1340 ; he is de-
scribed as a monk of holy manners
who, when he was not engaged in
monastic duties, spent all his time in
copying. He acquired an extraordi-
nary expertness and elegance in writ-
ing the peculiar character used in tho
books of the choir. His taienta were
appreciated, and Dom Jacopo was
seldom idle. He wrote twenty mas-
sive choral books for his own monas-
tery, the largest ever seen in Italy,
and a great many others for Itome,
Venice, and Murano. His fame
spread abroad, and after his death
the brethren of the order preserved

810

Mkiol-Painiinfm

the right hand of this scrihe, which
had done so much good work, as a
lasting memorial of his name. Dom
Silvestro, another monk living in the
monastery of Degli AngeU at the
same time, excelled in miniature paint-
ing, and to his lot fell the decoration
of those yerj books, as thej issued
from the facile pen of Dom Jacopo.
His work was thoroughly appreciated
by the great artists of the best ages
of Italy. Lorenzo the Magnificent,
and Leo X., his son, were pleased to
accord their admiration. When he
died his right hand was also embalm-
ed. Although this work of copying
and illuminating was carried on gene-
rally in the scriptorium of the monas-
tery, yet occasionally a monk had a
room to himself for the purpose, bear-
ing the same name. Giraldus Cam-
brensis, in his Life of St David, tells
OS that the great bishop commenced
writing a copy of St. John's Gospel
in gold and silver letters in his own
scriptorium at Menevia :

, " Scriptorium laam locumquc laborU." *

Many of the names of great illu-
minators arc lost in oblivion, but some
have been preserved. Of these, as
our investigation is more particularly
into the monachism of our own coun-
try, we shall dwell more largely upon
those men who were bom on JBritish
soil We have already adverted to
the peculiarly advanced state of the
Lish monasteries in the very earliest
times. There can be no doubt that
both as missionaries and educators
they took the lead in those remote
periods. Muratori, the groat Italian
historian of ih^ middle ages, mentions
Jreland as surpassing other nations in
the west in the career of letter8,t and
we have already quoted the testimony
of Bede. We shall therefore com-
mence our review of the English art
of illumination with the name of the
Irish abbot already alluded to, as the
first upon record, Bagaus, abbot of
Iniskeltra, who died about the year

• AoglU SftCTA, Tol. 11., p. 685.

t Maratorl— Antiq. lul. MedU Mr\, DliMrt. 4S.

587, and ezoelled not od

but in binding and deooi

next in order is the moi

an Anglo-Saxon, who had

and taught in the Irish

services were retained by

to teach the Saxon monks

asteiy of lona; and the

have before mentioned,

monk, Ukany who, at i

the eighth century, was ]

an illuminator. The sec

good soil, and bore abund

we next read of Eadfrit}

woldy both abbots of Lin<

bishops of Durham, who^

eighth century, wrote and

the magnificent copy of i

in golden letters, to the ]

Cuthbert, which is now f

the Cottonian Library at

Museum, and known as i

Book. There is good rei

pose that Dunstan excel

mination. In a manusc

Bodleian Library, there i

purporting to be by his hai

of Christ appearing to"^

who is prostrate at his feet.

whom we have also mec

chaplain to Ethelwold« bis]

ham, at whose instigatioi

took the task of writing an

ing the celebrated Ben Aict

is preserved in the Duke

shire's library. In retu:

work, Ethelwold made hii

Thomey. He flourished

JSrvenius, a monk of St. £

Abbey, was renowned as i

tor, about ten years later.

of Wulstan, bishop of '

written by William of Id

we are told that Ervenii

tutor, and that young W

first attracted to letters by

ful illustrations of a eacn

and Psalter, frcHn whicl

taught. « Thus," says the

« tiie youth Wtdstan aoqni

by miracle, the chief hei

most precious things, for i

lustrous beauties entered

aoertores of his eyea, he r

Mmal- Painting.

811

knowledge of sacred letters into his
▼ery bearU" * A similar instance is
recorded in the life of Alfred, who,
when a child, was drawn toward
books bj the charm of the illustra-
t'tODS. In Brompton's Chronicle we
are told that Osmundy the Bishop of
Salisbury, in the year 1076, did not
disregard the labor of writing, bind-
ing, and illuminating of books.f
BaidwinuSf a monk of Canterbury, in
the middle of the twelfth century,
his left a monument of his labors
behind him, in the shape of an elab-
orate psalter, preserved in Trinity
College, Cambridge. At the end of
this psalter are two drawings, one of
Christ Church and the monastery at
Canterbury, and the other a full-length
portrait of himself In the same vol-
nme are many historical figures, with
initial letters in gold, silver, and ver-
milion. TVe include in our list Mat-
Aew Paris, the historian, who, although
he ii supposed to have been a French-
man, jet passed his life in St. Alban's
monastery, wrote an English history,}
and may at least be taken as a natural-
ised, if not a bom Englishman. He is
reported to have had a good know-
ledge of painting, architecture, and the
mathematics. The history which is
called Historia Major, up to the year
12S5, was in all probability the work
of another. Matthew Paris wrote the
oontimiation, and copied the whole as
it is now in the British Museum, and
iDnstrated it. The next English name
RMoed from the oblivion of the past,

^Hibetat tnne (WuIsUd) nuiglstrum Ervonium
■**Ibi, b Kribendo et quidlibet colorlbus effliigendo
PM^ I* Hbros scriptos Sacramcntarium et
rvMam qooniaa prlnclpalen Uterus auro efllgta-
y yo en* Walttano delegaiidoi curablt. Ille pre-
gwn ua iplcuni captua miraculo dttm pulcbritu-
^■^lateails ocolla rimatur et scientiam Uterarum
MoBb haurit mcdaiU*. — Gl'ubu Malmh. ; Da
r^ WitUtan, la AnQ. Sacra^ vol. II., p. 244.
tipie cpbeopat Ut»roi scribere, lllumlnare et
Pg|^ BOB UithllreV. ^ Brofupton Chron. ann.

* (V iBlbcr a eonUnnatkm of one, the Artt part of
25^ IMS to ISSaL li attributed to Rodger uf Wcn-
*"^, vka vai !■ the pame moDUtery. William of
y ? *»im continued It to the year 1278, from the
W vbere Matthew Parii leares off (1359), but the
«Wb li flreqnenUy quoted as by MaUhew Paris. The
pAtbUhles are greater In faror of hi* being an
glHiliiMn than the contrary. UU works were ad-
■M bj the eariy Rerormers, for the bold and rlg-
*nM wnmr la which he wrote apon ecclesiastical

ia that of Alan Strayler, who waa also
a monk of St. Alban's, about the year
1463. His work is contained in a vol-
ume called the Golden Register of St.
Alban's, extant in the Cottonian libra-
ry.* It is a record of the benefactors
of the monastery down to the year
1463. His own portrait is inserted as
a benefactor, inasmuch as, according to
the text, ^ he had given to the adorn-
ing of the present book very much
labor, and had also remitted a debt of
3«. 4fl?. due to him for colors.'' Be-
neath his portrait are two lines in Latin,
to the effect that —

** The pidntor, Alan Strayler, here Is glyen.
Who dwdlls forever with the choir of heaven."

Tlierc are many other portraits of
royal and noble personages, holding
their respective donations. About
thirty years afterward died an eccen-
tric recluse, John Rotis^ called the her-
mit of Guy's Cliff. He was chantry-
priest at a small chapel, founded by
Guy, earl of Warwick, at Guy's Cliff,
and from the austere solitary life he
led there, acquired the appellation of
the " hermit." He was au antiquary
and an historian. He wrote a life of
Richard Beauchamp, fourteenth earl
of Warwick, and illustrated it with
fifty-three large drawings, executed
with a pen, which style of sketching
in those days was called " tricking,"
or " drawing in trick." This MS. is
still to be seen in the Cottonian col-
lections.! Rous spent his time in the
study of history and genealogy, and
wrote and ornamented several manu-
scripts, one of which was a roll of the
earls of Warwick. This is tlie last
Englishman who is recorded to have
attained to any excellence in the art
of illumination. We must not omit
some of the most prominent of
foreign artists who distinguished
themselves in this study, and in the
thirteenth century Orderico, canon
of Sienna, is mentioned as being one
of the most renowned. Lanzi, in his
History of Painting in Italy,} gives

• Cotton MSS.— Nero, D rlL
t Cotton MSd.-^ullus, E Ir.
tUnsl-UUt of Pointing, book U.,^

SIS

Jfimrf-Aimliiiy*

a description of one of hu MSS.,
which is preserved in the library of the
academy at Florence, decorated with
initials, ornaments, and figuves of ani*
mals, painted by him in 1213. The
names of two celebrated illuminators
are mentioned by Dante in his Dtvine
Comedy.

Oderigi cPAgiMiOj whom Dante
wrote of, was bom at Agubbio, near
Perugia, and died about the year'
1300 ; he was the friend of Giotto
and Dante at Rome. He was intro-
duced by Giotto to Benedict VIIL, for
whom he illuminated many volumes.
Francis of BolognOj the other men-
tioned by the poet, was also in the
employ of Benedict, and executed
many works for the Papal library.
There is an account in Baj^dinucci o f
one Oyho, who lived in the ft^urteenth
century, and is better known as the
Monk of the Grolden Islands, from
his custom of retiring from his mon-
astery at Lerino every spring and
autumn to an island in the Mediter-
ranean off the coast of France, for
the wise purpose of the contemplation
of nature. ** He would walk abroad,"
we are informed, "not only to con-
template the beautiful prospects
offered by the shores of those islands,
the mountains, villages, and the sea
itself, but also the birds, the flowers,
the trees, the fruits, the rarer fishes
of the sea, and the little animals
of the earth, all of which he
would draw and imitate in a wonder
ful manner.^'* Would that such an
inspiration might steal over the minds
of some of our modem artists I In
1433, according to Lanzi, flourished
one Fra Giovcaini da Fietolay a
Dominican friar, who attiuned to
great fame as an illuminator. Then
from the monastery of DegU Angeli
came again another artist Dom
Bartolommeo, abbot of St. Clement,
who was a painter from youth.
Vasari speaks of books and beautiful
illustrations executed by him for the
monks of Sante Flora and Lucilla in

^ Baldinaocl>-Not&xl« de* Profenore del Dlicgoo.

the Abbey of Aresso, and i
given to Sixtos IV. 1
French illuminatora come :
the scene, one of whoin» A
BeauneveUj is mentioned
Chronicles of Froissart* i
works, called Le Petit Psa
valued at eighty livres, abou
modem English money. A
his works was The Great
the Duke de Berri, fiio-s
which will be found in the
Sylvestre and Noel Hui
He died in the year 1416,
volume of Hours behind I
ished, which was bought
French government for 13,0
The other French artist
Foucquetj a native of Tom
spoken of as one of tl
of the fifteenth cento
principal works were the ill
of a book called L'Ancie
Juifs, and the Hours of
Bretagne, two specimens
may be found in Mr. Noel Hi
excellent work before allndei
greatest artist in the Italian
miniature was Don Oivii
whose advent closes the fa
the art in the fifteenth centa
incidents of his career maj
in Vasari ; tfaiey are eventfu
driven into a monastery
life, when the Spaniards <
Rome in 1527. He thre
cowl some years afler by t
permission, and went into t
of Cardinal Grimani, for
executed many of his be
An office of the Virgin occ
nine years in painting; i
extant in the Mpseo Boi
Naples. He also illununal
of Grimani's Commentar
Paul's Epistle to the Romai
now in the Soane Museum,
vcstrc's Pala90graphy,§ is i
one of Clovio^s miniatures

* Chronlqaes de FlrdBMrt, toL Vf^ r

t Paliog. UnlT., pUte 195: Miidik
lUumliiated Books of Um Middle An

X Uluminated Books of Um lOddk
xzxU and xxxiL

S SylTettrt-WAocUaljr^pliiliW

Mi$$alrPdinting.

818

MS. of Dante^B Vision, now in the
Vatican. Another splendid rclique of
this artist consists of a large miniature
of (he cradfixion, executed for Gregory
XUL; it was brought from the
Vatican during the campaigns in Italy,
in the time of the French lievolution,
by the Abb6 Cclotd. He was called
the Michael Angelo of painters, and
died in 1578, at the advanced age of
oghtj. His last days were spent in
peace, as Vasari tells us *' he docs not
itadj or do anything, but seek the sal-
Tadon of his soul by good works, and a
life 9pent wholly apart from mundane
a&irs." Godtfroy and Dutittet were
two distinguished French illuminators
of the sixteenth century, and Johan
Battel of Ulm, is the one with whom
Yuari concludes his anecdotes of
piiDting. This list is scanty enough,
and there can be no doubt that hun-
dreds of names have sunk in the ob-
firitm of the times ; devotees to this
beantiful art, and victims to the negli-
gence with which the art-historians of
the times treated their labors ; they
riomber in their unknown graves, but
their works exist to the admiration
sad speculation of modem times. We
l«re given a very cursory and rapid
reriew of the rise and development of
Ihis most beautiful art ; the most beau-
tifiil thing that mediaeval Christianity
fcis bequeathed to us. TVc have en-
deiTored also to give a few names of
•eh of our countrymen who excelled
io its exercise, and it only remains to
*ya few words upon its use, as a
^ork of refined piety, before we [iro-
ned to glean a few historical lessons as
^ flie doctrinal development of the
Attch, to be drawn from these art
^iinessions of different periods, for
1^ is nothing upon which a nation
• » community stamps the character-
Vtics of its individuality more clearly
ttan opon its art

lliese illuminations have a great
blorical value, as evidences of the
fife of the times. Were it not for them
Ae post as a life would be lost to us.
Fe should be almost ignorant of the
iBodes and manners of existence of

our ancestors. We might have de-
scriptive representations of the deeds
they did, but tlicir customs, their
habits, their amusements, and their in-
terior existence would have been lost
to us forever. It is that which en-
ables us to put as it were a soul into
history, to revive a past life in our
minds, to resuscitate it, and make it
live again before us ; all this, but for
the preservation of illuminated MS8.,
would have been irretrievably losu
It is from them alone we can see the
customs of the domestic life of our
ancestors, their habits at home, at
table, in tlie field, in society, for those
pictures, though executed to represent
a life of Eastern and Biblical inci-
dent, have this peculiarity about them,
that the paraphernalia of the scenes
are in keeping with the times of their
execution ; so tiiat unconsciously these
monks, when decorating their psalters
and their missals, have handed down
to us the very best illustration of the
written history of their times.* We
have hitherto reviewed this labor as a
work of art, but we must not forget its
higher and nobler motive. Art may
be kindled by the fire of ambition or
the love of gain, but the motive which
inspired the monastic illuminator was
a far higher one. Whatever wo may
think of what we sometimes call the
folly of spending years in illustrating
a gospel or a psalter, we must be
driven to the conclusion that as these
monks were situated, it was a work of
devotion. No other feeling could
prompt them to give their lives to such
a labor, because it was labor unre-
quited. In our times, or in fact in all
times, men will accomplish marvels
for money, but these men were paid
nothing for their labor, not even
the flattery of admiration. In the

• I know of no butter cvldnnco of the value of
the40 MS:^ than tho exccUont unci v.il'iablo work
compiled by Mr. Thomu Wrijrht, a great authorltr
on Saxon ar.tii]iiltle.4, called The Domestic Manncm
and 8<;ntlmer«t9 of tho Middle Ages la Kngland. Th*
work is cuuii>ilod ])rinciptlly from these source*, ilie
llhHtr.itions are c^ple*! from ancient MSS., and It
contninA a rcpertiiro of nearly all that can be gleaned
from them, rorniin? a picture uf tlie life of Siixoni,
Normuni, and early English, as It was sketched bj
thciQselTes — a moxt Taluabl« vork, botb for tUa hlft*
tor jio and geaeral rvader.

814

JSuci-Pitdniinff.

early periods of the art, it is true that
in one or two cases an illuminator was
made an abbot or a bishop, but those
cases were so exceptional that scarce-
ly half a dozen instances could be
found in history of such honor being
conferred upon an obscure monastic
artist. The works over which they
spent their long days and longer nights
were sent into the church for use;
gems of art they were, but exhibited
to no public admiration, to no applaud-
ing critics ; there they lay hidden in
monastic libraries, in church vestries,
in convent chests, to moulder in ob-
scurity for the amusement and com-
mercial speculation of an after age,
when the life they embellished had
died out in the world, and it should
become impossible to ascertain the
names of the men whose busy fingers
were plied with such magic skill.
Nothing but devotion could have
prompted such labor as that, and how
are we to say that in the eyes of the
Almighty the devotion which could
spend years lovingly over the em-
bellislmient of a gospel, to illustrate
it with the choicest productions of gen-
ius, and to offer up to it all that was
beautiful and good in thought, fancy,
and execution — how are we to say
that such an offering may not have
been, under the circumstances in which
they were placed, as acceptable in the
eyes of God as the limited devotion of
modem life, with its mechanical modes,
its periodical days of worship, amid
long intervals of sin? The devotion
of modem times may sometimes man-
ifest itself in the erection of hospitals
and churches, but we are not always
sure that such deeds are free from the
taint of ostentation of wealth or jeal-
ousy of hated heirs— to flaunt the one
or to balk the others ; but the devotion
which found vent in missal-painting
and copying the scriptures by hand
in the disirk ages must have been pure ;
for we cannot, even by the most pre-
judiced investigation, discover any
sorbid. or ambitious motive for it.
Where there is no payment we may
rest assured that labor is a labor of

love The best proof of Hi
difficulty to get people in
missals now. It was an
beautiful art, and ought i
died out so completely,
however, in the church, to
of vigilant Protestants, the
a sort of attempt at a revr
sdvalism ; it has become t
appeal to the fathers to
83val hymns, and to decor
ers of prayer-books and the
churches with mediseval
has proved to be more a
mediasval forms than med
tion. It has abo become
to study illumination — i
amusement for an idle hour-
have tried it as an art, but ;
both as an art and a work
even in these days of art
it has failed, and as a worl
been pursued with that avi(
success, because the modei
is wanting — it pays not ; i
automaton-like, a dead bod
cd, missal-painting without
But in our admiration of
and piety of these monasti
must not overlook one gre
this art is not only a repre
the interior life of the nati
sentation of its manners, c
modes of existence, but it i
flection of the state of th<
each successive period,
may differ in their account
may quarrel with each otl
history which a church ^
art and literature, in itf
painting, and poetry, is
it were, by the events
and graven by the very fin|
We take up a manuscri
to be written about the
It is an evangeliarum. I
picture of St. Matthew, y
hand resting upon a des
right holding a pen. Oi
page is the word " Liber,"

* It mast be borne in mind Uiat tl
paper Iji a Protestant, and we beltei
the Church of Kngland.— Ro. C. W.

t Cotton M83.— Tiberio^ A U.

MUial'Painiing.

815

ning of the gospel written on a crim-
son ground in letters outlined in yer-
milion and gold ; at page 72 there is
a picture of St. Mark ; all the evan-
gelists are delineated, but no other
inures. In a Psalter,* written in the
year 1000, the same simplicity pre-
rails. It is written in capital letters,
with an interlinear Anglo-Saxon yer-
sion. The title-page contains the
figore of Christ in the act of blessing,
hot the principal picture, which occu-
pies a whole page, is a representation
of Dayid in his youth, playing on a
lyre-shaped psalter, accompanied by
nx smaller figures, below which are
two others dancing. In another Psai-
terf of the same period there is a pic-
ture of the crucif^on, with Mary, the
motber of Jesus, on the one side, and
St John the Baptist on the other. A
Psalter of the year 1000,t very fully
inominated, is a fine specimen of the
pardy Biblical nature of the illustra-
tioos of that period. The calendar
^ the beginning contains arepresenta-
tioD of three persons at a table, and
two kneeling attendants. On page 7
i> a youthful Christ, holding a large
•croU, upon which the word " vita "
M written ; also God the Father, as
C(<eatQr of the world, in the Mosaic
<7pe; the figure is hidden up to the
fe by a globe, and from the mouth
"we two blue lines, representing
■tarns of water, over one of which
• doTO hovers— one of the oldest
■pecuDeDS of this conception of the
™»gbty. Another representation,
«» the next page, is the figure of
^vid tearing open the lion's jaws ;
tai the temptation of our Saviour —
J* devil is represented as having a
fCibd nose and daws. On page 10
"^ tie washing of the disciples' feet,
^ an angel descending from heaven
"^ acloth. Page 14, Christ appear-
■g to Mary Magdalene. On page 1 8,
tkc Last Judgment, in which Christ is
Mt prominent, holding in one hand
a bon, and in the other a cross ; be-

• Ootton MSB.— VespMlan, A 1.

tHarieUn MSS., StfoT

X OoMon llBB.-nb«riiu, G rt

low him is the Book of Life open, and
at his side are two large angels blow-
ing trumpets. Page 30 contains
David playing on the psalter ; and on
page 114 there is a large figure of
Christ, holding in his left hand the Book
of Life, in his right a sceptre, witii
which he is piercing the jaws of a lion
beneath his feet, and a dragon at his
side is biting the lion (see Psalm xcl.
13).

One of the mosi interesting speci-
mens of the opening of the eleventh
century (1006) is a manuscript called
-ffilfric's heptateuch, in Anglo-Sax-
on.* Its principal subjects of illumi-
nation are the fall of angels, the
first person in the Trinity enthroned,
Lucifer, the days of creation, the
creation of Adam, the fail, and the
expulsion from Paradise. But we
wish to call attention to the close re-
semblance of the Saxon of that period
to our modem English. We shall
quote a passage from the Anglo-Sax-
on text, which might almost be trans-
lated by the same words in modern
English. The passage is Grenesis iv.
9, 10. The Saxon runs: « Tha
cwGcth drihtcn to Caine, hwoer is Abel
thin brothor ? Tha answarode he and
cwoeth, ic nat. Segst thu sceolde ic
minne brothor hcaldon ? Tha cwceth
drihten to Cainc, hwoet dydest thu?
thines brothor blod clypath up to me
of eorthan." Which may be rendered
in English by almost the same words,
thus : ** Then quoth the Lord to Cain,
where is Abel thy brother? Then an-
swered ho and quoth, I know not
Saycst thou should I hold my brother ?
Then quoth the Lord to Cain, What
didst thou ? thy brother s blood crieth
up to me off the earth,"

In the first half of the eleventh
century, representations of the Virgin
are multiplied in the MSS. of the
period, though not yet as the pre-
dominant figure. In a Psalter of that
datef we have a representation of
David in prayer; then Christ en-
throned, with angels around him ; be-

• CoUon MSS.— Clftttdluf, B It.
t Ootton Ma8.*-GAlte, A zvlIL

816

Ifffffff-^flrfHtffMfi

low in a row arc eleven heads ; and
below all, the Virgin and twelve
Apostles in full-length figures. In
the representation of the ascension,
Christ is the main figure borne up by
two angels, and below are two other
angels and the Virgin with her
hands rained in prayer. In a picture
Bible • of this period, she is again in-
troduced. Page 8 contains a repre-
sentation of the root of Jesse— -be-
low lies Abraham, then David, and
next the Virgin, above all is Christ ;
but at page 20, we have the death of
the Virgin, and the Virgin enthroned
in heaven. In the thirteenth century
MSS., we find the Virgin taking the
most prominent position, and Christ
represented as a child ; saints, too, creep
into the illuminations, more especial-
ly Thomas a Becket, whose mur-
der npjtears to have been always
diligently inserted by the monks in
their MSS., as we shall see. In a
Psalter t of the year 1200, among
many other pictures, is a burial of a
5aint in his episcopal mitre ; and the
anointing of I>avid is followed a
few pajres after by the nuinler of
Thomas h Becket. In ^latthew
Paris's History of the English na-
tion (died li«">9), there is a picture
of the Virgin enthmneil as the queen
of heaven, with Christ as a little
child; she is bending her crowned
head, with her hair tlowing down, to-
ward the child, pressing her cheek
against his, while with her ri«rht hand
she cives him a fruit. In a Psalter {
of the same jvriod we find the an-
nunciation v^f the Viniin, the visita-
tion of the Virgin, ami the Virgin
crowned, with Christ again a-* a little
child. In a cv>py v^f the Vuljnte §
the tourih jvi-::** is fuU of pictiirvs :
th«Ti» is the Vinrin, wi:h Christ as a
rhilJ, St. Peter on oi»o si-.le. and St.
Paul on the o'hor: Ivlow is St. Mar-
tin, alwe the cnio!ti\ion. with the
Virj:n and St. ,lv^hn : aKno that are
two chr?rubiau and qu::e aKne all. in

• C.-.i.-.i MSS.- \- - v' .T.
- Ill- :-fc- MSS. ;. 1

, I PL

the position formerly accorded to-
Christ, is a representation of the oor-
•onation of the Vii^. In the fnig-
ment of a lectionary* executed for
Lord Lovell by one John Siferwis, t
Benedictine monk, there is on the
title-page a portrait of Lord Lovell
looking at a book, apon the cover of
which is a picture of the coronation of
the Virgm ; on the inner border of
page 8, there is the Vii)^ as the
queen of heaven, holding the child
with her robe in the left hand, and i
Bceptre in her right After three or
four more representation b of her, we
meet with the presentation of the
Virgin; in the centre is the Viipn
crowned by the first person of the
Trinity, who is represented as having
a long white beard ; another with the
Virgin and child upon the moon« sur-
rounded with rays ; on page 23, the
Virgin surrounded by the popf,
bishops, and others, and on page ti^
the birth of* the Virgin. Tlie office
of the Virgin was confirmed by Popf
Urban II, at the Council of Clermoof.
There are several of these offices ev
tant. In an office of the Virgin and
Ijrayers f of the date 1420, we find
pictures of John the Baptist, St.
James of Compostello enthroned, St.
Thomas Aquinas, also enthroned, and
St. Francis of Assisi receiving the
stigmata or wounds of Christ. On
page 11, the Virgin and child sett*
ed on a bench with St. Anna ; on
p,ige 13 St. Catherine, page 15 St.
Margaret, and page 21 the annuncia-
tion. In another office of the Vo^
gin, J we find the evangelists, the
annunciatiou and visitation of ^
Virgin, the muixler of Thomas k
Beokeu St. Catherine, St. Margai«ti
the scvMinring of Christ, adoratioD of
kings, and in the most prominent pi^
ture the coronatioQ of the VirgiOt ib
which she is represented as being sop
ivrttxl by an angel while the AlmightJ
i;» pointin^:: with his right hand to a
cheruK who, accompanied by twoaa-
gvU is abou: to place the crown od

• tlATU-fu MSa. T02C

* ^b. Kqita. t A stUL

JiRi$al-J\nni{nff0

«17

1. At the conclusioii there is
e of the Virgin on a throne
e child Christ. There are
other offices of the Virgin
Barleian collection,* bat we
ilj notice one more, which
ite from 1490 to ISOO.f On

and 21 are autographs of
Vn. and Henrj VIII., which
dfj the supposition that it be-
to both. Its illustrations in«
mong other things, the mur^
[liomas h. Becket, St. Greorge

Dragon, tiu Christopher, the
and child, with St. Anna, SL
le, St. Barbara, and St Mar-
There is a religious poem, il-

1 with miniatures, and bearing
m 1420 to 1430,i which elab-
delineates the intercessorial
attributed to the Virgin. The
in which this is set forth is a
ible one. In the lower part
a man dying on a bed, at the
which stands death, in the

brm of a skeleton, making
> pierce the heart of the dying
th a spear, and there is a
emon, with a hook reaching
him ; at the head of the bed
igel receiving his soul, which
esented as a naked infant ;
I the Virgin, with a crown up-
head, baring her bosom to
and imploring him, by the
which nourished him, to take
m the soul of the dying man.
re both kneeling before the
7, and Christ is represented
ed mantle as showing his
in token of granting his
I request. The Almighty is
ited as seated upon a throne,
1 a blue mantle, and having
d long white beard ; he is Hft-
land in benediction. An idea
on foot that the 'Virgin had
at the crucifixion; and in
these later manuscripts she
tented in the act In a Psal-
i;e 256, there is a picture of

rIcUn MSa, 9S4e, 8S94, S858, etc.

ia AdUtt, 17018.

ioD MSS.— riastlnA, B tI.

a. B«cla, S B Tli.

the crucifixion, with the Virgin in the
act of fainting. Mrs. Jamieson in
noticing this fact in her History of
Our Lord as exemplified in Art, has
remarked that it was condemned by
Catholic writers themselves. Thomas
Cajetani wrote of it as ^ ihdecens et
improbabile ;" and other writers are
quoted by Molanus, who inveighed
against it, and stigmatized it as a
thing <'temerarium, scandalosum et
pericnlosam."

But it was at the period of the Ref-
ormation,, and after then, that these
treasures of art suffered, and the na-
tural iconoclasm of human nature
broke out Men gazed around them
upon gorgeous temples, decorated with
splendid paintings, stained glass win-
dows, marvellous sculpture, and to
their zealous minds it was all idolatry ;
and they tore down frescoes, destroy-
ed paintings, overturned altars, broke
up statues, and burned sacred books
to exterminate error if possible, not by
the powers of truthful preaching and
godly lives, but by the battle-axe and
the bonfire ; not by uprooting error it-
self, so much as by beating down and
destroying its mere evidences.

It was in consequence of this icono-
clasm that much of the art productions
of Christianity has been lost to us;
nay, much of literature and history
also, for in the sack of a monastery lit-
tle discrimination was used, save as to
precious metals. We frequently read
of valuable books and manuscripts be-
ing consigned to the flames, but the
cups, chalices, the contents of the cof-
fers, invariably found their way to the
treasury. We must always remember
this, that human nature was not whol-
ly confined to Roman Catholics, but
that there was a considerable amount
of it among the Reformers. Still, in
spite of iconoclasm, in spite of mis-
guided zeal, sufficient has escaped de-
struction, and been preserved to our
inspection, to convince us of the beauty
of those arts which sprang up in the
wake of Christianity, though they did
ultimately become tainted with human
error. And wo may see in all this

818

I%$ Fairett Fcdr.

painting and scolptarey poetry and
music, the marvellous adaptability of
Christianity as a regenerator and stim-
ulant, how it takes up what is good in
the world — genius, skill, love, devo-
tion, and starts them into new chan«
nels, with increased vigor and nobler
aim. It took np philosophy, purged it
of its errors, and of philosophers made
fathers ; it took up science, and bid it
labor to alleviate human suffering,
and assuage the physical condition of
humanity ; it took up art, and not only
embellished it, but gave it an inex-
haustible realm of subjects — a realm
in which it has been laboring ever

since, and thou^ improving
vancing in each age, will m
haust its treasures ; it has bee
Founder declared it should be
of the earth ; it has rescued tl
in moments of darkness and
aroused it from apathy and
ence, purged it, stimulated it
on in the right way, and bi
back again when it had p
wandered ; and not the least <
of its purifying, elevating effe*
the fine arts is this, which i
been endeavoring to descrilx
rise and development of miss
ing, that beauty of clobtcred

From The Month.

THE i^AIREST FAIR.

(from ST. JOHN OF THE CBOSS.)

*' My beloved it the moantains.
The solitary wooded vaUeys."— iSX. John <ff the Oroi§,

Mountains, that upward to the clouds arise,

Odorous with thyme, whereon the wild bees linger,
Jewell'd with flowers of a thousand dyes.

Their petals tinted by no mortal finger ;
How solemn in their gray-worn age they stand,

Hills piled on hills in silent majesty I
Lofty and strong, and beautiful and grand :

All this and more is my beloved to me.

Come forth into the woods, — ^in yonder valley.

Where rippling waters murmur through the glade ;
There, 'neath the rustling bouglis of some green alley,

We'll watch the golden light and quivering shade :
Or couch'd on mossy banks we'll lie and listen

To song-birds pouring forth their vernal glee.
Wave on, ye woods ; ye faery fountains, glisten :

But more, far more is my beloved to me.

He Fairest Fair. 819

Enow je the land where fragrant winds awaken

In spicj forests hidden from the eye :
Where richest perfumes from the boughs are shaken,

And flowers nnnotie'd bloom and blush and die ?
Sweet is Ih' eternal spring that there reposes

On wondrous isles that gem the snnnj sea,
And sweet the gales that breathe o'er beds of roses :

But sweeter far is my belov'd to me.

IV.

The roaring torrents from the ice-cliffs leaping —

I see them foaming down the mountain side,
Through the green dells and valleys onward sweeping,

They fill the hollows with their mighty tide :
Their voice is as the voice of many waters ;

Onward they rush, exulting to be free ;
But ah ! their thunder fails, their music falters :

Far more than this is my beloved to me.

A gentler sound wakes in the hush of even.

The whisper of a light and cooling breeze ;
It stirs when twilight shades are in the heaven, '

And bows the tufted foliage of the trees ;
It fans my cheek ; its music softly stealing

Speaks to my heart in loving mystery.
Ah, gentle breeze ! full well thou art revealing

The joy that my beloved is to me.

VI.

Night comes at last, in mystic shadows folding

The nodding forest and the verdant lawn,
Till the day breaks, and Nature starts, beholding

The golden chariot of the coming dawn :
Xhen on each bough the feathered chanters, waking.

Pour forth their music over bush and tree.
Cease, cease your songs, ye birds ; my heart-strings breaking

Lack words to say what Jesus is to me.

VII.

"STea, all the fairest forms that Nature scatters.

And all melodious sounds that gi*eet the ear ;
"Xbe murmuring music of the running waters.

The golden harvest-fields that crown the year,
"Hie crimson mom, the calm and dewy even.

The trabquil moonlight on the slumbering' sea, —
All are but shadows, forms of beauty given

To tell what my bebved is to me.

820

ThB Godfrey Family; or, QuaHant of tke Day.

THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OP THE DAT.

CnAFTEB IX.

RI<XIGION — FIIILOSOPnY : "VmiClI IS TUB
TRUTH ?

But wc must return to Cambridge.
Eugene made inquiries respecting his
late visitor, ]M. Bertolot, and finding
llmt lie tauglit his own language as a
means of subsir^tence, lie applied to
him for instruction, not indeed to learn
the language, which he knew how to
read already, but, as he said, fm* prac-
tice in speaking and so forth.

'* I will come to you," said Eugene,
" for lessons hi your philosophy ; you
shall give them to me in French. I
will write them down, you will correct
the phniseology, and thus I shall im-
prove in two d(»partments at once."

*• I will toaoh you French, if you
<lcsin» it, my younj; friend," said M.
Bertolot, ••and by conversation, or
any other mode you may desire ; but
to enter on monil or mental philosophy
is quite another affair, and might load
to results nnexi>ected on your part. I
am not quite prepare^l to promise for-
mal instructions on these subjects at
this early stage of our at^quaintance ;
my views might shock your pi\»con-
ccived ideas."

•' Fear not for that,*' said Eugene,
- my prooonot ivoil ideas, if ever they
wo IV do tin ire, are now ctMitiisiHi ;
that mind aois upon mind, irrosjKX'l-
ivrly of n^aiior. sionis ilio only clear
thought I liaAo on i!io subiox*i. Fur-
ther than [h';s all i< bhnk. The nu\«-
morio a^ir.oio> of which wo ho.'ir so
nuuh, :uiil \\w apjvaninoC'5 of spirits,
in some i;'s;a"Oi'< woll ai;cs:o\!. soeni
to pnno u'iontal ir.tiuonoos ^.^ b;* dinvi :
b;:t w:\a: iv.on^ do iVoy pnn-o ? 1
have somii;uus !a::o:i\1 r:,:i; iho nur-
»ory udc* mAv In? true, and that i: is

possible that angels of light and de
mons of darkness do exist, and that
we are operated upon at times by
spiritual agencies not detected by our
senses."

'^ Some of the wisest of the earth,
even among the pagans, have held
this opinion,'' repliel M. Bertolot,
*'and, as I told you in our first in-
terview, the traditions of the fallen
angels v.'ere handed down to the Jews,
and dealings with any one of them
prohibited. Sorcery and witclicraft
were considered ' sins ' in the Mosaic
law, although the generation of the
present day scouts such ideas as be-
neath the dignity of the human intel-
lect, and ascribes every discovery in
knowledge to the progress of hnman
intelligence alone.''

**Yet," said Eugene, '^history
might teach all students that the
best-laid schemes have often been
overset by apparently inadequate ex-
terior causes. The pagan doctrine of
the • Fate?,* which evidently exercised
a vast influence over men's mind?,
must have originated from their pe^
coption of the fact, tliat hoinan wisdom
cannot absolately dispose events ; pre-
ordination or the covmtenicting in*
fluence of invisible agencies, hai
formed more or less an ingredient in
every rational belief, ancient as wdl
as modoni. But does it follow from
this that supernatural agencies are it
work? may it not be a delusion ia
yrm riple as well as in form ; for thai
the form was erroneous in heathenism
at least, I suppose we must acknow-
KhI^jo, since heathenism is exploded
now.

- 1 susp^M." said M. Bertolot, •* tbH
instead of originating, as joa have
supposed, fnxn hamaa obaefratioa of

1%$ Godfrey Famlf; ar^ Queittans of tke Dag.

821

he doctrine of the * Fates *
corruption of the doctrine
)rovidence handed down by
re tradition. When pagan-
Ldered at first sight, it seems
to modem ideas, that we
invention^ or a growth, or
embodiment of our abstract
rom reasoning on observa-
what if it were none of
\ 1 What if it were simplj
m of the primitive tradi-
materializing, so to speak,
1 doctrine? It has often
ed that beneath the veil of
positive knowledge might
id bj a thinking soul. If
e, as, to a certain extent,
to warrant our acknowledge
I the latent truths that are
> lie hid beneath the mystic
ay faintly trace the ancient
dhions, defaced first by the
■pe they wear, but more,
S by their fixing the atten-
) world on animalism and
I, as the true ends of

ot quite understand you,"
c.

explain by reference to'
ory," said M. Bertoiot.
9t sin of disobedience ap<
ive disturbed the relation-
soul previously held with
iteUigences, nay, to have
hia own organization, and

fiway to in&rior appetites
I to the superior part of the
\ primarily subjected these
>etites to its control. The
er united the soul to God,
arily then all his faculties
tnsed and his passions held
n. That union destroyed,
» rose, fierce and uncon-
lie first man having become
sgot the second, who was
!r through envy of his
nritnal superiority. Since
ion says that only through
He to the disordered pas-
amility and patience and
saa the pristine order be

TOL. IT. 21

restored and the primal supremacy
of soul regained. This is the office
of true spirituality. Paganism also
treats of good lost — and of well-being
to be acquired through prayer to the
immortal gods ; but the good it sup-
poses lost, il^ that of bodily gratifica-
tion, or of power, or grandeur, and its
gods are propitious only when they
avert the sufferings which should dis-
cipline the soul and prepare it for the
reception of the regenerative truth."

" Something of this," said Eugene,
" I have heard Euphrasie say ; but
she would not explain her words, and
they came to us like enigmas which
we could not solve."

"The solution cannot be compre-
hended by all," said M. Bertoiot ; " a
preparation of mind is necessary ere
we can solve the enigmas of history ^
and melancholy, indeed, are the facts
presented. Look at the first events.
Piety, which is another word for the
endeavor to seek reunion with God^
was renewed in the race of Seth, and,
through them the pristine traditions
were preserved. But soon these sons
of God looked on the daughters of men
and saw that tliey were fair, and again
spirituality was overpowered, and the
race lost itself in sensuality, and was
destroyed by the flood. To the eight
who survived, of course, the traditions
were known, and Noah, priest, patri-
arch, king of the new race, lived three
hundred and fitly years after the flood,
to bear a long testimony to their truth.
But the perversity of the human in-
clination was too strong. Man^s choice
had been to know good and evil ; evil
could only be known by separation
from God, and it would seem as if he
were fated to have his choice gratified ;
it was inevitable at any rate, if he must
know evil. Accordingly we find that
even one hundred and thirty-three
years before the death of Shem, who
had witnessed the deluge, and who
lived five hundred years after it, in
order to perpetuate the memory of it
in the minds of men,* it was necessary
to set apart Abraham, by special pro-
vision, to keep intact the spriiaal

822

The CMfrey Fcamiy; or, Qimtitmt qfO^ Dag.

meaning of the traditions of trae re-
ligion. Already had the creature
again taken the first place in human
affection, to the neglect of the Creator.
Already impersonations of human pas-
sion bad arisen and mixed themselves
with the traditions they received from
their fathers. These traditions they
hid under the false imagery that stole
into their hearts ; but perverted and de-
based though they may be, they form
the basis of whatever truth may be
discoverable under the garb of my
theology, and the peopling the world
with invisibly acting spirits is one of
these notions which the heathens did
not invent, but only perverted.'*

"I think I see what you mean,"
said Eugene ; " but tell me if your
philosophy has discovered why man
himself is such an enigma, such a com-
pound of loftiness and meanness, so
grand in idea and so poor in execu-
tion ? Why is truth so difficult, seeing
that it is so necessary to him ]"

" Man is a fallen being," mournfully
responded the mentor. " The divine
spark once inbreathed, though dimmed
and clouded, still prompts to high
hopes and high deeds ; but severed
from God, he can effect nothing to sat-
isfy himself. That reunion is in fact
the sole aim and object of existence.
None other can satisfy the inward
yearning. How that reunion is to be
accomplished revelation comes to tell
us, for human philosophy was at fault,
and the first step I have already point-
ed out is prayer."

" There are many religions," said
Eugene, '* and how is the true one to
be known ?"

"Nay, that question is beyond
philosophy, and philosophy was to be
the subject of our interviews. I will
assist you in distinguishing the func-
tions of the mental faculties, but at the
present stage of the inquiry I will not
forestall your conclusions. We have
already seen that the nature of man is
compounded, and that his physical na-
ture is the inferior portion of that com-
pound, his moral and spiritual nature
the highesL Intellect is the servant

of one or the other, accord
which is accorded the pred
and it is because that predon
so often given to the inferic
our being that we must be
on our guard against an mi<
not but that even our spir
moral qualities need also to 1
ed, for pride and egotism cor
these. In fact, man's life h
only that of an exile consc
his being bom, severed from
true end of being, but th
quences of that severing caui
to be one struggle to replace
ties in their pristine equilibi
to accord to each its fitting of
for instance, when giving tot
ual that precedence which is
we must beware lest we em
anv other purpose than the v
*The True.' There is a
spirituality as well as a spu
rality.*'

" But why do you dlstino
rality from spirituality ? Wi
term comprehend both ?"

** Scarcely, since moralil
the relationship of man to mi
uality, his relationship to Gt
law of God may and does
man's morals in those |)er3on:
knowledge that law ; but we
live without Grod, as is too
case, he must liave laws to re
intercourse with his kind;
the spiritual man necessaril]
ledges the moral law, but \
man does not necessarily adi
the spiritual law."

^ And what, then, is the s
the moral law ?" asked Eug<

" Apart from the spiriti
must be regulated by reason,'
his friend.

"But," said Eugene, **!
fers in different minds ; naj
ent localities. Turkey sacc
England condemas, and ancii
taught her children to pnn
all Europe would now punls
doing.'

"Probably; but that on
that there is no absolute oc

Tk$ CMfirey limiig ; or, Quesh'oM of ike Day.

828

^ben reljiog oo his own unas-
Kght Nevertheless, law does
md must exist, to keep society
r, and to protect life and prop-
To he consistent, it should pro-
» itself a definite purpose, and
its mles to meet that purpose.
Kms are not agreed on spiritual
, and as life and property can
ected without their so agreeing,

lawgivers incline to leave out
question the higher law apper-
to the interior life, and to leg-
lurely on materialistic princi-
irovided they do not by Icgisla-
Qtravene that higher law or
miso its principles in any de-
) mischief can come of such a

but, unfortunately, a neutral
I is a difficult one 16 uphold,
dously, as it were, man in-
the conditions sooner or later,

anomaly of enforcing the wor-
'* reason' at the point of the
; is enacted again and again/'
1 what part does reason take
ion 7^ asked Eugene.
QDOst important one," said his
*• since reason is a direct gift
d to man, and all natural
len unperverted, have a direct
ioii to a spiritual gift. Man's
is not changed by spiritual
I is sanctified, purified, elevat-
iaced in the position of grace
b Adam was created, or rather
superadded grace of the re-
o. Reason, consequently, must
3 the evidences concerning the
' fiicts presented to her — must
by what authority they are as-
be facts — ^must compare them
Iher facts— examine, prove,

But remember, reason does
ite facts, and may not ignore
ben proved, however contrary
rdinary course of our experi-
rhe Eastern despot caused the
r to be strangled because he

that he had seen water in a
m. So, many a man strangles
lence of a fact, because he as-
lie fact itself to be beyond be-

'^Gan you give me any rules re-
specting the exercise of reason V* ask-
ed Eugene,

<^ Beware, in the first place, of con-
founding it with actual experience.
Experience is, having personal evi-
dence of fact, as true history is hav-
ing our neighbor's evidence of the
same. But the facts must be as-
certained before we can reason upon
them, otherwise we may draw conclu-
sions from false premises. But in
sifling evidence regarding facts, be-
ware of rejecting any on the sole
ground that they are not of ordinary
occurrence, or of a class within the
personal experience of yourself or your
neighbor. Incredulity is as great a
folly as c]*cdulity : let each question
rest on its individual merits, and re-
ceive the investigation due to its im-
portance. In the second place, re-
member that the process of establish-
ing a fact is essentially different from
reasoning on that fact when establish-
ed. The latter is common to all, but
the evidence which establishes facts
acts differently on minds of different
dispositions. Thirdly, a certain series
of facts already assumed to be estab-
lished, oflen appears to throw light
upon and render probable, or even self-
evident, another series of facts which,
without their precursors, would be of
doubtful authority. But that which it
is most difficult to realize is, that cer-
tain states of the mind render it easier
to admit the probability of certain
facts than certain other states ; so that
ere we proceed to the investigation of
foreign ideas, we must, as far as in us
he, examine ourselves as to t^e im-
partial state of our dispositions, divest
ourselves of any prepossessions found-
ed on the lower principles of our
being."

"As for example?" said Eugene.

" As for example, my young friend,
we take the proposition already dis-
cussed this evening: 'Man is a fiallen
being!' This is either an historical
fact or a falsity. Now some men per-
sist in rejecting all agency that is not
in acooidance with Uie oidlnaiy se^

324

Tke Godfrey Family; or, QuuHmu of IJk Dag.

queaces obeerved to occur in the ma-
terial portion of the creation, conse-
quently they deny the primary fact as
matter of history, though compelled by
experience to admit that man oflen
falls de facto. This, they say, is in
consequence of his non-observance of
nature's laws, the knowledge of which'
provided he acted on that knowledge^
would remedy this weakness. The
knowledge of physics is, then, to these
minds, a necessary and important in-
gredient in what to them constitutes
virtue, while physical ignorance must,
by the same theory, bring with it vice
and misery.

The history of the creation given by
Moses is to such persons a sublime
myth, conveying no other idea tlian
that it presents a splendid manifesta-
tion of beauty, power, and grandeur.
The aim and object of these men is
necessarily materialism — the content-
ment of animal existence ; and while
this is their aim, their mental vision
cannot see the doctrine of the fall of
man from spiritual life. Convince these
men, however, of their own inherent
spiritual affinities, which, though now
m abeyance, are ready to be called
into operation if only they will that
they should be so called — let them ex-
perience the yearning for higher life,
which now lies dormant if not dead
within them, then will the cloudy myth
become reality, and the falls de facto
be viewed as the necessary result of
the original fall from spiritual unity.
A new vigor will be infused into the
frame, and a desire to re-establish the
pre-existing supernatural relationships
will become the absorbing interest
Tlie rationalist will become a Christ-
ian, not by force of human reasoning,
but because a change has taken place
in his disposition, in his aspiration."

" But does the reception or appre-
hension of truth, then, depend on human
disposition P* asked Eugene. " Should
not truth bo self-evident, or be at least
demonstrable to those whom it con-
cerns ?"

" To pure natures doubtless it is so,"
said M. Bertolot, ^ but I need not point

out to you that facts of eveiy-d
currence show us that man's lu
no longer pure, and therefore is
he is blinded by prejudice and
bent of his inclination. Few hai
found willing to lay aside the p
rank, the demands of hnman o
and the conceit of human leamii
come like little children to be
by the inspired angel of truth."

^^ I, at least, would like to try
Eugene. '< Would that the ai
truth were to be found P

"• Pray ! and you may find hia
replied M. Bertolot

'* Prayer is your constant tl
perceive,** said Eugene, smiling

" It is man's most constant
and the powerful preserver of his
replied M. Bertolot '^ Man's
by its origin aspirative, panting
reunion with God, even when
rant of the cause of his disqu
The soul has faculties which
gratification, and can be gratifie
in God. These faculties are nou
by prayer, and to prayer is an
the promise of being heard ; but tl
must accept and fulfil the conditi

^ And what are those conditi
asked Eugene.

" The prayer must be humble
his friend, <* diffident of self, cm
in God ; and it must be accom]
by a firm resolve to let no privat
no motive of interest, bterfere w
inspirations sent in answer. T
fiuenccs exercised over oa by t
terior world, with all the empi
physical enjoyment, must be rec
give way as soon as they inteifei
the recognition of the divinity 8p<
to our souls, as this interference i
fatal ; for the *• fall of man' in tl
place, the rise of paganism in tb*
ond, and in the third place the i
of the Jews in recognixing thesp
character of our Lord's kingdo
arose from this undue empire c
love, of private interest, latent <
tent, in the human aouL And di
pire must be subdued ere we eai
to r^ain our position as ' aons
eternal and essentially spiritaal (

Th$ Goijreg Family; ar^ Quegti&ns of tke Day.

825

yet,* said Eugene, « we are
as well as of the spirit, and
inds of the fiesh are loud and

and to a certain extent they
gratified^ or life would fail.
; uie body be the servant and
master of the soul. Let the
r existence be reunion with
t the mere gratification of
n. This aspiration, or this
ind, I may say, this alone —
le distinctive mark between
1 and true religion. It is not
' idol that injures the soul, but
rd feeling that is directed to
ship ; that accords to beauty,
hysical power, and animal
ion, the inward adoration due
(jrod, the creator, redeemer,
•• Have I made myself un-

ink so," said Eugene; ^and
measure, the great mass of
lation must be as essentially ,
I they wei'e in the days of
piter, Bacchus, and Apollo."
ir many will be found so,**
Bertolot <*Men appear to

eager than ever they were
Tor improvements ; they are
ig hold of the aspirations of
; they have destroyed old
and substituted new pbiloso-
d new remedies for evil that
ing the very foundations of
truth in men's minds. Yet
not utterly stifle his inward
if nor annihilate his spiritual
The soul who rejects the
ihip bows, although uncon-
to inferior agencies, and ani-
gnedsm and spirit-rappings
their poisoned food for the
ppetite, and exercise their
mpire ever the craving souls
Bt the hallowing operations of

Meantime the world is in a
I state of trouble and con-

* sud Eugene, ''but modem
r^ ascribes this state to igno-
d says a proper educational
lent would obviate alL If

so, what becomes of the fall of
man?"

** If so ! rather a large if," said M.
Bertobt. " The world is nearly six
thousand years old, and is it but now
to begin to discover truth ? and is that
beginning to be the laying aside of
all received traditional lore 1 Wed !
it is a new era, and everything will
wear a new aspect soon. It is as
though it were in the councils of the
Most High, that every form of man's
folly and self-seeking should have
full development Good, if he learn
at last that from God alone, by super-
natural means, comes true light to the
soul. Good, if when all other means
have been tried and found to fail,
he seek it there at last Good,
if at length he recognizes the fact,
that the souVs proper sphere ib divine,
is supernatural ; that it is a con-
sequence as legitimate for the puri-
fied soul to tower above, to command
matter, as it is for heat to melt ice.
Good, if he become aware that from
the Eternal alone proceeds light and
warmth and power and due action,
and that the human soul, the proper re-
cipient of these graces, cannot exercise
its own proper vitality (so to speak)
without these gifts from God, which
form at once its nutriment and its
stimulus. Now, the unbeliever uses
not the means, consequently feels not
the divinity stir within him ; and that
positive inertia of his spiritual existence
is the great cause of his remaining
an unbeliever. It is as though
a man were to refuse to believe that
equal proportions of sulphuric acid
and of water, being mixed to-
gether at the temperature of fifty
degrees, the compound will immedi-
ately acquire a tegaperature as high
as boiling water, and not believing it
possible, he refuses to test it, and so
remains unconvinced. Nevertheless,
the rise of temperature in this case is
as certain a fact in chemistry as the
fact in theology is certain, of the rise
in the soul, when it approaches God
by the means he himself has iqk
pointed."

326

The Godfrey Family; ar^ Queeiiem rf the Day.

" But," said Eagene, " if I under-
stand you theologians aright, it is the
prayer of faith that pierces the clouds.
How am I to attain this faith 7*

'' Begin with the graces which y6u
have already : I mean that of a sin-
cere desire of truth, and that of the
consciousness that you have not truth
in actual possession yet. These two
facts of your mind are gifts immensely
great. Follow them closely and in
simplicity, and greater results will fol-
low. They contain already the germs
of faith, and if you are true to their
teachings you will be led to throw
yourself, in child-like abandonment,
into the arms of Grod, and contentedly
follow where he leads. Your yearn-
ing for truth will then be gratified."

** And how am I to discover which
historic facts are true? By divine
light also ?"

"Divine light will aid you even
here. Yet in this case you must use
the best human means you can com-
mand. You must study the evidences,
examine the prophecies, and contem-
plate tlie manner in which these pro-
phecies have been fulfilled. You must
endeavor to penetrate the spiritual
meaning of all the types, of all tiie al-
lusions. You must mark well the
connection between the old law and
the new law, and distinguisli the essen-
tial differences between what revela-
tion from God t», and that which is
simply man's idea of what a revelation
from Grod should be. Study the de-
velopments of heathenism, modem as
well as ancient ; you will find more
similarity than at first appears on the
surface : and you will also easily trace
therein, the divine truth, borrowed from
the first traditions, and from the de-
velopments of revelation, which min-
gled with their perversions form the
basis of their system, a system which
is built on a materialized version of a
spiritual teaching, which, parted from
the centre of good, went astray by fol-
lowing its own fancies, relying on its
own unassisted judgment. Finally,
meditate sedulously the truths of the
religion taught at the foot of the cross.

Do not wait till you believe
do this, but learn what rel
as taught by Christian apostle
if you reject Christianity, yoi
least know what you reject, ai
embrace it you will find many
difficulties melt away, as if the
mosphere dissolved diem. But
every process, * pray.' ^

" I will," said Eugene, " <
I will ; until I have found the
is but reasonable that I shoul
to your guidance. Yes, for a
will study, meditate, pray, and <
to keep my mind unbiassed.'
tally he added, "Yes, Eupl
will endeavor for a while to f
that could bias me — even you.

CHAPTER X.
SCENE IK THE C.V8TLE CHA

So absorbed, indeed, did
continue to be in these pursi
home influences and home
seemed to have passed from 1
altogether. The long vacati<»
at the lakes, studying work
certainly college authorities di<
into his hands, and which hi
would scarcely have sanction
Us return to Cambridge he f)
Bcrtolot absent for a com
time, so his studies continued
in the theological direction. '
abled him the better to elude
of observation, and as his fiUl
was one of the least likely to be
by " superstition" of any kind, 1
liar mode of passing his time pi
noticed, only the surprise seem
that in the classes he did at
took so very slight an interest \
he passed for an indolent yoo
while in fact reading hard an
tating deeply on themes ft
by the University regulations,
these dreams of his own fashk
was one day unpleasanth' ai
to a sense of lua coanectioii i
outer world b/ a letter ikom 1
fpey, deUfliig In ».,

Th Godfrey FamUy ; or, Qtustians of the Day.

827

le transactions we have related
STious chapter, and requesting
take an early opportunity of
Adelaide. Mr. Godfrey stat-
himself, Mrs. Godfrey, Annie,
Iter were about to return home,
t Adelaide declined to return
em ; she wished neither to be
Qor wondered at, when the
ibsence should become publicly
She felt equal to keeping
state becoming her rank, and
ited her aunt and Euphrasie to
cate themselves with her for
onths to come, which arrange-
T friends deemed a very suita-

ne was deeply moved, for fami-
lad ever been strongly felt by
1 to the transient disgust ex-
his sister s conduct in consent-
larry the duke, now succeeded
empathy for the annoyance and
ition she endured. Indigna-
inst the cause of it was, how-
eless. The duke was gone,
igene would have felt some
J io reconciling a " call of honor *
le form of a duel with the new
hy upon which he was so in-

it was well for him to be out
ray of temptation. His agita-
not, however, escape the obser-
if his friend, who being just
I from his trip, happened to
him on the same morning on
5 received Mr. Godfrey's letter.
and in strict confidence, Eugene
d the cause.
', take it quietly, my young

said M. Bertolot. '*Ic is a
I misfortune, I grant, but let
) the result in God's hands ;
J come of it yet."
Ink I ought to go and see

bout doubt; and your aunt,
welcome you.''

1 will you not accompany me
four presence would be most
fe to Euphrasie and to her

tf I thought I should not

^I will ascertain that,*^ said Eu-
gene ; and he wrote to his sister of
his proposed visit, and of his desire
to bring a friend with him.

The return of post brought a cor-
dial invitation to both. Accordingly,
they set out for the castle together,
and received a most flattering wel-
come from the inmates. For many
days all went happily — very happily.
Eugeue*s natural disposition was gay
and joyous, and this ever made him
an agreeable companion. At all times
every member of the family had been
fond of this representative of a gentle
house ; but at this particular juncture
his unaffected cheerfulness rendered
him especially acceptable to the
duchess.

Yet, when the first excitement was
over, there were many things about
him which puzzled, even while they
interested her. She began to feel un-
certain as to whether she understood
him. That which seemed a joke, en
passant, on reflection appeared to con-
tain some hidden meaning. The cas-
tle itself was a continual theme with
him. The number of its large, unoccu-
pied chambers, which he bade her find
inhabitants for among those whose
dwellings were so scant of room that
they could not even observe the de-
cencies of life : the vast grounds,
almost untrodden by human feet,
among which he was always pretend-
ing to seek for concealed hermitages ;
then the retinue of gentlemen and
ladies who were called servants^ but
whose principal occupation, Eugene
insisted, was to make work for others ;
— these were a never-failing source
of raillery. All these things, which
flattered Adelaide's pride, seemed to
him but subjects of mere banter, and
certainly did not excite that reverence
for the "state" in which she lived
which she expected and desired.
Then there was M. Bertolot, a poor
French teacher, nowise elated by the
condescension with which she, one of
the greatest ladies in the land, enter-
tained him. Galm, self-possessed, he
received her attentions with as mudi

828

Tha CMifrtg FixmH^; or, Quettiom afOt Da^.

quiet dignity as if he were her equal.
Certainly he did not pay her homage ;
and as homage was precisely ^at
for which she had married, she could
scarcely avoid feeling a little aggrieved
on the subject, or feeling as if she had
been defrauded of something that was
her due; though her natural good
sense forbade her from showing her
sensitiveness to her guests.

The castle was very large— so large,
in fact, that Adelaide had never en-
tered all the chambers. More than
half of it had been dismantled, and
was generally kept locked. An old
steward who kept the keys alone
knew all the intricacies of that part
of the house, which he asserted had,
in ancient times, lodged a largo body
of retainers, and that it could now,
in case of necessity, accommodate
whole regiments of soldiers.

One day, in a merry mood, Eugene
proposed to his sister to escort her
through her own house on a tour of
discovery. She assented. The house
was in the form of a quadrangle, en-
closing a flower garden of considera-
ble size. In the midst was a reservoir,
into which a water-god, exquisitely
sculptured in marble, was pouring a
continual jet of water. Marble pil-
lars supported the upper story of the
mansion, forming beneath an arched
and cloistered walk round three sides
of the garden. Already had Eugene
spent hours here in meditation, for it
was ever cool, shady, and sequestered ;
and it being understood that here the
family alone were admitted, the ser-
vants consequently kept aloof.

"Beautiful cloisters those would
make,'' said Eugene. " When you
exchange your ducal coronet for a
nun's veil, Adelaide, and your jew-
elled chain for a rosary, you can come
here and tell your beads. Your con-
vent is provided already."

" What an absurd idea !" said the
duchess.

*' Nay," said Eugene, " such tilings
have b^n, and may be again."

" Nonsense I this age is too wise for
that"

They passed on. Even E
surprised at the extent of
dation in the furnished and
part of tlie building. The
had so divided the place tl
his duchess had had tbeur sc
tablishments under .u>ne roo
being cognizant even of ea
proceedings. For the last
their lives they had met on
days and on state occasions.

Adelaide now inhabited tl
rooms occupied by the forme
Until to-day she had neve
those set apart for the duke.

A shudder ran through h<
as she traversed them, for
seemed to whisper her, that
another duke would die like
— married, yet wifeless — an
entailed dwelling, with its va
and cherished heirlooms, w
away from her altogether.

Eugiene saw his sister tun
guessing something of what
ing in her thoughts, led h
down a narrow staircase, <
poslte sid6 to which he had ei
opened another door, wbicl
them into a secluded shrubbi
he had never before observe
walked a few yards, and the
a low, vaulted archway,
tered, for the key was in the
though the door turned somev
ily on its rusty hinges, they ea
cd it open. Another door
itself, and that, too, was
Wondering, they entered. !
yet scarcely knowing why tb
hushed, they moved forward,
themselves in a small, deserti
Stained glass was in the win
stone altar yet remained ; flu
marked the aisles ; a large
wrought in one of the walls
work; but the setits and <
were gone. A damp, can
pervaded the place. Ade
chilled and drew back.

" Nay, stay one moment,
Eugene. "I will open th(
Let us see what this place is

They approached, but sad

The Oodfirey Family; or, QuestioM of the Day.

829

id Eaphrasie on her knees, in
formed in the wall, while M.
;, seated on a Rtep beside her,
in the very act of raising his
er her in benediction,
lide started as if an adder had
er. She* suppressed a shriek
tily tamed away. Eugene fol-
ind reverently closed the door.
Inchess was too much annoyed

I. She was moody for the rest
ay, but made no remark on the
which occupied her thoughts,
y after, Eugene was reading
r, while Euphrasie was seated
vindow, employed in working
iery, when the duchess began,
lewhat bitter tone :

II, Eugene, in one Uiing you
»ppoiuted me. You used to
od of art ; and your visits to the
>n have been so very few, and

short, that I wonder what is
ter with you. What objection
1 have to what all the world
taste r-pieces ?'

tie at all — indeed none, my dear
Your statuary is magnificent,
led." This was said in a depre-
jne, for Eugene earnestly wish-
ivoid discussion. " There can
alt to find with the Pantheon.
rhoam to blame. I am out of
St now. Jupiter and Mars have
to interest me. My taste for
sm has had its day, I presume,
mot always be wrapt up in the
lings."

the duchess was not satisfied
is answer. It rather increased
K>yance, and she replied in the
ittor tone :

larvel to hear you and Euphra-
fenm idolatry, while shq is gn
ies before an image for hours
r, and you see no idolatry in

demoiselle de Meglior does not
\ images that I am aware of,"
igene, somewhat startled at this
though to keep her mind con-
id on one idea, she may pos-
ike use of them."
1 what is that but idolatry?"

said his sister; ^how many of the
pagans, think you, would mistake a
statue of Minerva for Minerva herself?
Their statues were but types to recall
ideas."

" Yes, but the ideas themselves
were false ; Paganism was the worship
of physical power, the deification of
materialism. True religion is the di-
rect converse of this. It is the eleva-
tion of the soul to spirituality, the rec-
ognition of a spiritual God, who cre-
ated man for his own glory, endow-
ed him with spiritual life, for the ex-
press purpose of keeping him strictly
united to himself. The centre of the
one system is self or concupiscence.
The worship rendered is the worship
of fear, or for the promotion of self-
gratification. The centre of the other
system is God, by whom all things are
made, in whom they still exbt, and
for whom they should exist in will, as
well as in act. One is paganism, the
other is Christianity."

" And what may you mean by con-
cupiscence, most learned TheJ)an?''
asked the duchess.

** Concupiscence is such a love of
self as prevents us from making God
the first object of our love," responded
Eugene.

" And you, in sober earnest, profess
to think it possible to love God more
than yourself ? "

^ I think men have done so," said
Eugene, " though they have been but
few, when compared to the world's
masses."

<^ Men have loved their whims and
fancies to an astonishing degree, I
know," said the duchess ; ^ fanaticism
has abounded on the earth, but fana-
ticism is, after all, only a species of
madness; I know not whether it be
curable or not."

" Do you, then, think it a sort of mad-
ness to endeavor to find the true and
living God, and having found, to wor-
ship him ? That, surely, is not your
grace's meaning?" There was a
slight contempt in Eugene's tone as he
said this ; his sister was nettled and
answered coldly:

830

The Godfrey Family ; or, QuetHone of Ae Daif.

" Man's spirit is naturally supersti-
tious, I think : that is the secret of all
this nonsense about worship. He is
ignoi-ant, and fears and trembles. En-
lighten him, and he will walk upright
and rely on himself alone.'*

" And what is man, that he should
rely on himself alone ?" responded
Eugene ; " a being weaker than the
lower animals, needing even more pro-
tection than fhey do to defend him
from the inclemency of the weather,
and obliged to labor to provide food
BufBcient for himself, wliile tlic food of
calves and goats grows beneath their
feet. "When young, man is powerless ;
when sick, powerless ; wlien old, pow-
erless ; nay, without aid he is usually
l)0werles8."

" But man generic," said the duch-
ess, " can aid this greatly. Combina-
tions might be formed which would
remedy this individual powerlcssness.
Such, they tell me, are in contempla-
tion ; and when formed, superstition
will be crusiied under the ciiariot-
wheels of improvement in man's phys-
ical condition."

" It might,*' said Eugene, " if any
degree of mere animal enjoyment could
content man, but it cannot. Let man
surround himself with luxury to the
highest possible degree, there will still
be the feeling that a higher life exists
for him. Man's soul, the divine spark
inbreathed by God, can rest only in
God. Glimpses of high destinies still
float around us, and in our unsatisfied
longings — unsatisfied when most pro-
vided tor — we find the pledge that wo
were made for higher things.*'

" Mei-e Platonic crudities these, my
dear brother," said the duchess, with
a smile. *' Beware ! you ai*e on a
dangerous path; themes like these
have misled many a noble mind.
And look! Euphrasie is smiling an
ussent to your mysticisms ; she thinks
you are already half-way on the road
to Catholicity."

" No matter by what road we are
led, provided we arrive at truth," re-
sponded Eugene. ** But you are mis-
taken in your conjecture ; I have not

been studying Platonism but Chris-
tianity."

^ It may be Christianity is but a
form of Platonism," said the duchess :
'^ at least many learned men have eo
asserted. What Christianity was in-
tended to be by its founder I can
hardly make out ; but it seems to have
borrowed largely from the mystics as
it travelled through philosophy."

« Nay," Baid Eugene, " to me thai
appears a gratuitous assumption.
That to a 8ui)erficial observer there
may be some grounds of resemblance
between the ideas of spiritualitr, ab-
stractly considered, entertained bj
the mystics and by the Christians.
I grant — as also that, to a certain
extent, man may be capable of
deducing these abstract ideas fnrni
observation of nature's working*. Na-
ture is a manifestation of the spirit of
God, consequently there always xniL«t
exist a certain correlative teaching
in nature corresponding to a higher
spiritual teaching, though man's blmd-
ness will not always perceive it ; bat
this is only an exterior relationship.
The spirit of Christianity enfolds a
principle which natural philosoplij
does not touch."

"A principle which is the mere
creature of human imagination." said
the duchess ; " nay, I might say it is
the offspring of discontent. Man is
dissatisfied with his lot, and frames ft
heaven for the future. He were more
wisely employed in remedying the
present evil"

**If it were possible, you should
say, sister. How many evils can man
avert ? Do we not suffer, from natn*
ral predisposition, diseases of various
kinds ? Do we not suffer in ou^aff<^
tions from the misconduct of others?
And do not the majority suffer an en-
forced toil, which absorbs their time,
and leaves them neither energy oof
leisure for speculative thoughts t They
must work or die. Now, philosophy
would but render a man discontenfcei
with this state of things — a state which
loaves the toil to one, and the enjoy-
ment, supposititious [lerfaaps, bat sdU

Tie Godjrmf Family ; or, Questions of the Day,

331

apparent enjoyment to another. Force
can compel it — tLe force of unsatisfied
nature ; but Christianitj hallows it —
sanctifies it — ^by teaching how all ap-
parent hardships may nourish virtue
and unite the soul to God."

" Nay, I do not dispute tliat religion
ia necessary for the vulgar,*' said Ade-
laide.

" And are the vulgar to have the
highest portion ? Christianity is the
exaltation of the soul — paganism, the
worship of the body. In that case, I
would rather cast in my lot with the
vulgar."
•* If it were but true/* said Adelaide.
** Become poor, lofty lady, and you
wiU feel its truth. Perchance luxury
18 a kind of anodyne to a human being,
10 that he does not feel his soul when
under its influence. Become poor ;
toil, day after day, for a scanty pit-
tince, and you Avill find yourself asking
if man is only a laboring animal. Be-
come poor, and the soul will speak to
you of power and aspiration, and ask
why is this sense of loftiness unused.
It will ask you why every faculty has
its legitimate sphere in which to act,
ud the soul alone remain without a
•phere. Perhaps we need something
of thU experience before we can feel
the sdrrings of the divinity within us
^before we are prepared to compre-
bend the truths of religion. Certain it
uthat the gospel was sent peculiarly
to the poor, and that the refined tiifles
which occupy the minds of the rich,
prevent their attending to the inw^ard
Twce of the spirit."

** \rhy, Eugene I you are qualified
br a Methodist preacher. This is
ttere rant and cant. Religion takes
10 8och exalted standing in the minds
of the vulgar. The Methodist has
iome pet theory to save his soul, with-
out troubling himself about good works
it all; and the Catholic tells his beads
tod seta up his images in the very stylo
€f paganism. They say tliat at Rome
Ibe adoration of the Virgin Mary has
taken the place of the worship of the
goddess Yenna — where is the gain
tkrer

"The patroness of purity in ex-
change for the goddess of lascivious-
ness ! Nay, surely, sister, that ex-
change must be a blessed one. What
I have been trying to express all along
is, that all that makes us do homage to
the animal nature — ^all that worships
the merely physical — ^is paganism ;
while all that represses carnality, pro-
motes purity, and leads us out of our-
selves to unite us to God, is Christ^s.
The union of the saints in Christ is not
idolatry ; it is but an additional means
of glorifying God by showing forth, in
united prayer, the triumph of Christ-
ianity over death itself."

"Do hold your tongue, Eugene.
Let us have no more of this. Some-
times you are a Catholic, sometimes
a Methodist; but in either character
you will be disowned as my father's
son. The idea of your disgracing a
line of philosophers by such stale
trumpery !"

Eugene laughed ; and as he saw
no other way of closing the debate he
quitted the room, which Madame de
Meglior was just then entering. But
the duchess, seriously annoyed, turned
sharply round upon Euphrasie.

"I suppose," said she, "you have
been putting these foolish notions into
the boy's head. Beware, if you make
a Catholic of him you will destroy the
peace of a whole family ; but that, I
suppose, is a secondary consideration to
making a convert."

" Lidced, your grace — " replied Eu-
phrasie.

" Nay, do not deny it, whether by
words or looks or acts, 'tis all the
same ; there was no Catholicity in the
family until you came into it, and now
I clearly see some means must be used
to prevent its spreading."

"But," said Madame de Meglior,
" in this instance you have forgotten
that Eugene is almost always at Cam-
bridge ; how does my daughter's re-
ligion influence him there ? '

" I do not know, but you see it has ;
the boy was well brought up, was ra-
tional and intelligent; and now to
adopt these follies! He, the rep-

382

The Chdjre^ Family; or, Quutimu of Am Dojf.

resentative of mj father's house,
too!"

Madame do Meglior was now vexed,
but she ventured no reply; it was im-
politic to offend the duchess. She liked
Durimond Castle better than Est-
court Hall; secretly she hoped that
Euphrasie had made an impression on
Eugene's heart. She would like to
have seen them married, and she well
knew that Euphrasie would not mar-
ry one out of the pale of the church.
Religion was, to madame herself,
nothing. She was a no-thinker, not
an unbeliever: she had lived nearly
all her life in France, among people
who sometimes went to mass for form's
sake, and who called themselves Catho-
lics, and she could not comprehend the
bitter feeling with which her country-
men regarded the Catholic Church.
She thought children should be taught
religion ; it made them dutiful, and for
her part she did not see that her hus-
band's daughter was inferior to her
nieces. She, however, smothered her
vexation, as she said :

" You think too much of these vaga-
ries, my dear niece. This is the age
of tolerance; we must be lenient to
youthful folly."

" This is a serious folly, aunt," re-
plied the duchess. " It would make a
commotion throughout the kingdom,
were my father's heir to turn Catho-
lic"

" Yet the wars of the Pretender are
long since at an end. Europe scarce-
ly knows whether a representative of
the Stuart line is living. It is time
these feuds should cease. I tiiouglit
* freedom of thought' was the v/atch-
word of the Godfivy family."

" What frecflom of thought is there
in Catliolicity ?" asked the duchess.

" Nay, that I know not ; but I think
freedom of thought moans that each
one may be of the religion he thinks
l»est."

" He must not be a Catholic," said
the ducliess ; " at least, not outwardly.
He may think as ho likes, of course ;
no one can hinder that."

^ Is that the toleration of England,

may it please your grace ?" Bud Hjid-
ume de Meglior, banteringly.

" It is. Why shoold he be allowed
to des.troy the political influence of
the family, to mar the marriage of
my sister, to bring a slur on a r^
spectable name ?"

*^ I had not thought of that," an-
swered madame ; and for the first time
she pondered whether it was really an
evil that Euphrasie should bo a Catho-
lic.

After this conversation, slight as it
was, Euphrasie became more and more
resolved ; till then, though scarcely to
be called intimate, she had been at
least friendly with Eugene Godfrev.
Now she avoided him when she coold
do so without positive rudeness. Tbe
Countess de Meglior, who began to
watch her closely, could only pcrceiTe
that her passion for solitude was e^er
on the increase, but her obedience to
herself never faltered. Madame de
Meglior, though but little given to re-
flection, now discovered that this wasa
very convenient disposition for ber
step-daughter to chensh ; for, had she
wished to be brought forward in the
great world of fashion, like other girls
of her age, madamc's pride would hate
been wounded at not being able to do
this in the proper form for her, as tbe
daughter of a French nobleman. She
felt glad, then, that, considering bow
matters stood, the girl had not forgot-
ten her convent education, and resolved
for the present to let her pray and
meditate unmolested, feeling sure that*
when their estates were restored lo
them, Euphrasie would become like
the rest of tlie world among whom tbcj
moved. As for Eugene, she had
penetration enough to discover that
Euphrasie's bashfulness rather tend-
ed to fan his flame than to cztingoish

M. Bertolot, who was also watching
the young people with much intereat,
did his best, on the contrary, to in-
duce Euphrasie to open ber mind 10
Eugene ; but in this he experienced
so much difficulty at first, tlmt he b^
gan to think he must abandon the de*

Zka Qodfreji FamHy ; or, Questiona tf A» JDa^.

accident came most unex-
hisaid.

lod drew near when their
» conclude, and on the day.
the one ibced for their de-
duchess, who had recover-

I humor, proposed a pleas-
> a ruined monastery some
istant. There were many
)le of the partj, and they
lemselves in groups ahout
Is. M. Bertolot gave his
phrasle, and began to ex-
ruins af^er a methodical
*he walls were of great ex-
of the rooms remained en-
nch of the plan could be
'y made out the site of the
room, the chapel, refectory,
and so forth, and were des-

the probable locality of
nents when Eugene joined
?his must have been a
place," said he.

says it was large and well
aid his friend. "What say
asie," he continued, ^ shall
it for your friends ?"
) large," said Euphrasie.
e wlU suppose an indefinite

nuns, and the enclosure
>e placed wherever you di-

hen it would be too grand,
cent for the votaries of St.

II not accept it, then ?**
iless I might build on an-

Our holy foundress loved
)r as well as to be poor."
et,*' said Eugene, "there
lagnificent convents in the

aid Euphrasie ; " some or-
hem exteriorly grand, but
>ved everything to be plain
van the church."
\ijj" asked Eugene, " sure-
Scent church is a great ad-
igion. St. Peter^s at Rome
of the world."
ie looked as if about to re-
I checked herself.
^loty however, observed the

movement, and said, "Nay, tell as
your thoughts, Euphrasie."

" I am not sure they are correct,"
she replied.

" Leave us to judge of that. Speak
them as they are."

" If I should scandalize you," said
Euphrasie.

" Scandalize ? Nonsense I Tell ns
your idea."

" Well, then," said the young lady,
" although splendid edifices have often
been erected by the piety of the faith-
ful, and though in all ages it has been
accounted a good work to adorn the
House of God, I believe that our holy
foundress, who was ever watchful over
the interior spirit, thought there might
be danger of exciting vanity even in
that respect, and on that account de-
sired poverty for her daughters in
every arrangement Our own dear
reverend mother often inculcated
upon ns the remembrance of the words
of God, * I will not give my glory to
another,* and it seems as if there were
a special temptation to man to indulge
vain-glory when undertaking any vast
exterior work for religion. The most
splendid temple that the world ever
saw, that of Solomon, lasted barely
four hundred years ; its founder fell in-
to idolatry, and the worshippers were
can'ied into captivity in punishment
for their sins. The second temple
had been built scarcely six hundred
years when the frequenters of that
temple, urged on by the priests, cruci-
fied the Lord of Life. It seems danger-
ous for man, in this his fallen state, to
deal personally with magnificence of
his own creation ; he is too easily puff-
ed up to render it safe for his souL
Therefore is the first beatitude for the
poor in spirit, who desire no gran-
deur."

" Thus thinking, you disapprove of
St. Peter's at Rome I" add M. Berto-
lot.

"Disapprove! nay, reverend &ther,
you well know I should not dare to
disapprove of aught that the church
has sanctioned. The church has every
kind of dispoflition to deal with, and

834

The Godfrey Family; or^ QuBtUom of A0 Day.

in her wisdom follows St. Paul's ad-
vice, in becoming innocently all things
to all men, that she may gain some to
Christ. I was merely referring to our
own dear community, who strive after
the spirit of our great foundress.
Among these, I have seen some weep
when the desecrations have been de-
scribed to them of heretics taking
luncheon baskets within the very walls
of St. Peter's, and using the place as
a lounging apartment or gossiping
room. Again, I have seen others
to whom that magnificent church of
Rome would bring most saddening
thoughts, to whom it appeared as a
monument of the great schism which
rent the seamless garb of Christ into
nameless divisions ; where not only
the shade of Luther haunts the fancy,
but that of the monk Tetzel also, who
paltered with the doctrine he was sent
to preach."

M. Bcrtolot shook his head. ^ You
view these matters too strictly," he
said ; <' all men are not like the good
nuns, accustomed to practise interior
recollection so perfectly they can dis-
pense in a measure with exterior aids ;
to most souls, exterior appliances are
useful and necessary accessories to
devotion. The ma^s of mankind must
not be judged of by likening them to
the inmates of a convent; there is a
wider gulf between than you have
any idea of."

'*Nay, I remember my father's
death," said Euphrasie, mouni fully ;
" but, reverend father, was it not you
who told me that, m those terrible
disturbances, the richcz of the church
attracted the wolves to the sheepibld,
and that the treasures of the religious
houses occasioned the thieves to enter
and take possession ?*'

" True ! Too true ! my child ; yet
will the piety of the worshipper ever
seek to adorn the house of God, and
the richness of the shrine be an indica-
tion of the fervor of that piety. It
is alike the pleasure and the duty of
the votary thus to enrich the house of
Qod.''

** Bat," interrupted Eugene ;

^ Mademoiselle Euphras
of herself as if belon^ng
vent already. If not indii
I be allowed to say that '.
we are not to take that 1
* au pied de la lettre V *'

Euphrasie blushed and
M. Bertolot, as if asking hi
for her ; but he only said, in
half-whisper:

" Speak for yourself, my c
necessary to be explicit."

'^Then," said Euphrasia
lieve you may receive the fa4
I was brought up with the
and have always believed n
ed to be one of them. I sti
the hope of seeing them agi

"But in this country,"
gene, ** how can you be a n

" I do not know ; but wl
certain our convent was to
up, the superioress said to
the habit does not make tl
dear children, neither does
For his own wise purpos
Providence now separates u:
spirit of prayer, the spirit
tion, of obedience, of me<
chastity and poverty, yoi
sedulously cherish still ;
seems to you that the circ
are unfavorable, remember
seeth not as man seeth, and
best what will most contrit
glory and our sanctification.
ber, too, that, to a soul livh
exterior circumstances are i
so, still, wherever you are,
to Ood and to St. Clare.' "

"But you surely are np
nun, mademoiselle ?**

** No, but my resolution
and I feel that it will never

Eugene's brow cloudec
felt a heaviness at the he
oppressed him greatly, "h
walked by their side until t
the rest of the party, but ft
of the day he was as sik
phrasie herself was wont U

The duchess wondered
come over him, but do n
made on the sabjecL The

The Godfreif Family; or, Questions of the Day.

835

be and M. Bertolot returned to Cam-
bridge.

THE DUKE

CHAPTER XI.

A^D DUCHESS BEFORE TUB
-WORLD.

The Godfrey family bad returned
home depressed and saddened. Over
Mrs. Godfrey *8 spirit, in particular, a
shade seemed cast, wbichbut deepened
ts time passed on. Sbe was a true mo-
ther, and worldly as were ber ideas, ber
affections were very deep. Attached
to her husband, attached to her chil-
dren, she felt Adelaide's position even
more than Adelaide herself appeared
to do, for ibe affections of the young
bride were by no means of so fervent
a character as were those of her mo-
ther, and her pride and haughtiness
were incomparably greater. Indeed,
it vere difficult to prove that the young
dneheas was a e^reat sufferer at the
preaent time. She exercised despotic
way over the vassals (as she proudly
termed them) of ber lord's domains,
vas generous, and in return was much
beloved and gladly greeted with that
booage which was dearer to her than
Mgbt else.

At the end of six months the duke
wtumed. He resided chiefly in town,
hot when in the country he occupied
the snite of apartments fitted up for
the former duke. He presented his
wife at court, stayed with lier, and as-
•ijted her in doing the honors during
the festivities of a London season ; he-
aved to her in public with the most
'wpectful attention, listened to every
iQ^stion, and gratified to the best of
bis power every wish she expressed.
Nothing, in fact, could be better than his
wndnct to his wife before the world ;
•od whatever that world might con-
JWnre, the polite and digniflcd be-
havior of both the parties concerned
gave it little to talk about. To Mr.
^>odfrey the duke gave full authority
In the lettlement of all matters in which
liii daughter was concerned; and as

she appeared contented, who could
have a right to find fault ? After re-
maining a few months at home, the
duke again departed on the business
of the embassy, and this time he
stayed much longer abroad. But as
Adelaide did not complain, the remarks
made were soon hushed into silence.

CHAPTER XIL

THE PRINCIPLE OP SOCIAL EQUALXTT PUT
TO THE TEST.

Madame de Meglior continued
to reside with her niece, and made
herself so agreeable, that the arrange-
ment promised to become permanent.

Euphrasie continued to exhibit the
same impassive exterior; in appear-
ance she was but the slave of her mo-
ther's will. The duchess regarded her
as almost a nonentity, at least atler
the fears excited by Eugene's religious
tendencies had in some measure sub-
sided.

But Annie I " a change had come
o'er the spirit of her dream." She,
always disposed to romance, was un-
guarded now. Formerly, Adelaide
had acted as a check upon Annie's
fondness for equality, fraternity, liberty.
Now that that restraint was witlidrawn,
she imprudently allowed Alfred Brook-
bank to treat her more and more as an
equal. It is doubtful whether, even
if Eiie had reflected, she would have
foreseen the consequences, for in her
most republican moods, she never for-
got that she was a Miss Grodfrey of
Estconrt Hall ; and though to amuse
herself and pass away the time, she was
willing enough to discuss equality and
the " rights of man," she certainly ex-
pected to receive full credit for the
condescension in allowing to an infe-
rior the privilege of such " free discus-
sion" with herself. Home was dull, her
sister gone, and her cousin gone too :
her mother was always ailing now, and
her father, ever newly al^orbed by
some pet plan, kept his darling Hester

386

The Godfrey Famify; or, QttesUane of Ae Day.

constantly at his side. Annie was
alone, and somewhat desolate : Alfiied
Brookhank always on the look oat for
an excuse to b^r her company and
amuse her. Annie was becoming ac-
customed to his attentions, without at-
taching any more definite meaning to
them than she would to the attentions
of any one of the numerous dependents
of her father's house, when, one day, he
took advantage of a private interview
to make a formal profession of love.
This was indeed a surprise ; for, though
any one else might have expected it,
Annie had never once thought of such
a probability. Marriages in her fam-
ily had always been conducted so dif-
ferently. Besides, she had never looked
on Alfred as other than patronized.
She had not dreamt of such presump-
tion, thougli she had allowed him free-
ly to broach in her presence his doc-
trine of the "inherent equality" of
such individuals as are of equal calibre
of intellect, and of the right of all man-
kind at large to freedom and equality.
Her manner of receiving this declara-
tion was certainly not very flattering ;
for she drew herself up in a some-
what haughty manner, and replied that
the proceeding was so unexpected, so
uncalled for, that she did not know how
to answer it, for Mr. Alfred must be
aware that the difference in their so-
cial position rendered such a pro-
posal unanswerable.

" To one of ordinary mind, perliaps,"
said Alfred, somewhat chafed ; *' but
to one like yourself, endowed with an
understanding above the petty conven-
tionalities — ^"

"I am not above recognizing my
duty to my family, Mr. Alfred, and
you must be aware that no one mem-
ber of it would consent to this."

" Nay, if you only allowed me to
hope I had any interest in you, I am
sure Mr. Godfrey would not refuse
your wishes."

" I have no wish to trouble him on
the subject," was the cold rejoinder,
somewhat haughtily expressed.

**• I may not hope then — "

^ You may hope nothing on this sub-

ject whatever. Let it be drop|
and forever. If I can aid joi
pects — "

"You will patronize me.
you, Miss Annie, but patronaf
you would suit my temper ba
had thought there was one b
the world superior to the inflo
prejudice, of conventional disti
but you, too, deem me an infei
cause I boast not of pnltry w<
of gentle descent Inferior ;
deem me, you shall yet feel mj
— ^yes, my power 1"

His hmgnage and his ton«
those of a madman, and his i
eyes gave him a frenzied appe
Trembling with rage, the qi
lover left the presence of his ;
meditating in bitterness the mo
ful revenge.

Had Annie put any faith in 1
fessions of love to herself, she
have been undeceived by this b
rage. Love had not animated
that was apparent enough ; hie
pointment was but a foiled an
yet after permitting upward •
years' attentions, conscience t<
he should have met with a less
ty rebuff. The retrospect shov
she had encouraged him. SI
then partly drawn upon hei
merited rebuke. She could I
knowledge this, and, humiliated,
would willingly have done her
repairing ^e evil she had oca
by promoting his advancement
but this was beyond her power
next news she heard was that
Brookbank had prevailed on \\\i
to advance him a large sum of ]
and had set sail for America.

Time passed on. Estcoor
became duller every day, and
the arrival of a new family
neighborhood there was nothin|
tercst outside. This family co
of a dowager Lady Conway, \
and daughter. They had pui
" a place" near the sea for the
of L%dy Conway's health. Th<
estates, or rather the son's •
were in a neighboring shire.

TJi0 Godfrey FamUy; w, Questiaru of the Day.

as?

intellectaal, but they were
ind of good family, and in
ntimacy sprang up between

the Godfreys, none knew
rhy, and in a few months
e surprise of every one, ** The
Post* announced that Sir
nway, Bart., had led to the
9 Annie Godfrey, second
3f E- Godfrey, Esq., of Est-
I.

irriage was strictly private.
3ft Cambridge for a day or
present at it, but he soon re-
college. Of the nature of
s no one guessed. He did
>r honors, as his father would
ed. Nevertheless his tutors
cx>d report of him, and the
ife he led made many sup-
lie was pursuing very deeply
lobby of his own.

this was partly true ; for
%i his first return to Cam-
was much dejected, he soon
reflect that Euphrasie was
ig: that she not only was
Jetely dependent, but that
likely to continue so; and
most unlikely thing that
pen, was the gratification
)h to enter a convent. He
time to teach her this, and
e sprang up within him, and
X the very moment that his
fiertolot, began to hope he
sred his feelings fir Eu-
id become reconciled to the
separation.

spoke not of his love, but
red ardor he addressed him-
idy the most important ce-

that can exist for man.
r the counsels of M. Bcrto-
astered the evidences of
I and then assured himself
revelation, once given, was
iDtected: that that which
led to shed light on the hu-
daricened by sin, was not a
nii fatuity subject to human
imt an unerring guide and
Ig kmp. We will not Jol-
burough his arguments now,

VOL. IV. S2

as we shall have occasion to make
him speak for himself on a future
occasion.

Time passed on. Annie had been
married a year or more. Truth to
say, she was somewhat ennuyie at
present. Her husband resided chiefly
on his estate, and this was at some
distance from Estcourt Hall. There
was little society in the neighborhood,
and Sir Philip's tastes corresponded
very little with her own.

The young baronet was perfectly
well-intentioned, but neither refined
nor cultivated. The society of his
farm-bailiff, the walk to the fatting-
stalls, the talk about the respective
fattening qualities of turnips and
mangold- wurzels, the speculations on
the relative value of farm-yard ma-
nure, of guano, or of soot, and dis-
sertations whether each or all should
be applied as top-dressing or should
be worked into the soil ; such were his
occupations, and sooth to say, he ex-
celled in the pursuits he had adopted.
No beasts at Smitbfield could show
finer points than Sir Philip*s: no
farm was in finer model order: his
tanks, his bams, his under-drainings,
and his irrigations, together with his
prize cattle of eveiy description, were
the admiration of the agricultural world.
He was truly a " lord of the animal
creation," and he prided himself on
being so. Of intellectual culture he
had small appreciation ; but as he had
great ideas of order, and deemed him-
self master by right of " the masculuie
being the most worthy gender," (which
was the only idea he retained from his
Latin grammar, that had been vainly
endeavored to be flowed into him at
school,) he would ill have brooked in-
terference with his rights. To l)im,
a wife was a necessary appendage,
nothing more ; as to allowing a wo-
man to dictate to him, the thing was
absurd. He was ^ a Idni of creation,"
and though ho wished the world to
pay due respect to Lady Conway, be-
cause she was his wife, yet it is ques-
tionable whether he himself would
have allowed a woman a voioe oa aoj

888

The Godfrejf Famly; or, QuettUmi qfHk Dag.

flobject beyond those connected with
domestic economy, and even here he
reserved to himself the power of veto.
He loved his wife, certainly, because
he thought it was a part of his duty
to do so ; besides, he really had some
sort of animal affection for her. An-
nie was well-made, of good birth, well-
educated ; to say the least, he was as
proud of her as he had been of the
animal which had won him the first
prize at the Smithfield cattle-show.
It was part of his system to have the
best specimens of animal existence
domesticated on his estate, and Annie
did not di8a;race his other stock.

But Annie ; poor Annie ! She was
alone m the world, though surrounded
by everything that could procure bodi-
ly ease or bodily enjoyment. She
had horses to ride, she had a carriage
to ride in, she had gardens and hot
houses, plantations and shrubberies ;
but to her cultivated piind wlicre was
the response? To the poetry that
strove within her for expression, where
was the listener ?

*' The ihoufrlit Uiai cannot xpeak
Whispers the o'crfk-aught heart, and bids it break I^*

But Annie's was not a spirit to be
easily broken. Naturally expressive,
she would have sought interest even
among the cottagers, had not her hus-
band's jealousy forbidden it. He was
a maffnijlcoy and he liked not that his
wife should be more popular tlian him-
self. He wished to gain the name of
being a liberal benefactor to his labor-
ers and cottagers, and would not share
his reputation even with the being to
whom lie had plighted his faith for
life. Annie was thus thrown on her
own resources. Brought up intellectu-
ally, slie found a resource in books ;
and though at times cast down, she
rallied again, for youth is buoyant,
elastic, hoi)eful, and a literary taste
carries in itself a wonderful power of
compensation. But Annie was no
dreamer, and the ideas that suggested
themselves demanded action, which as
yet they were denied : yet Annie read
on, and thought on. The time for

action will one day surely e
thought.

" Lady Conway," said Si
one day at the breakfast ta
you know any thing of a M
Bfbokbank ^

Annie almost started ; she
changed color, but Sir Philip
observing her ; so she answered
no— yes ; that is, Sir Philip, tl
lived at Estcourt, and sometu
ed at the HalL '

^ He has bought old Gordc
and is about to become our ne
bor."

^ Indeed ! How did he
money ? He was poor when
him."

" He has made very fortun
ulations in America ; besid
he succeeds to his father's pn

*'I8 Dr. Brookbank dead?

" He is, and lias left a con
sum behind him ; he econoni
known to his family, it seems

" But even so, there is an c
ther."

" No, he died in America
there is certain news."

*• In America !" said Aoi
did not know he was ever-rtw

"No? Well, it seems he
with a neighbor's wife, tool
America, got tired of her, left
went off to the woods. There
some time, but one day was
the foot of some rapids, drove

" But how did his fami
this ?"

** Some stranger to thai
identified the body and gave
before the presiding magistr
which they searched the s
which the man had lived, a
pai)ers corroborative of li
Walter Brookbank, and thes
with sundry articles, they m
to his family, according to th*
given by the stranger, and t
found to have belonged to H

" Strange concurrence of
Who was the stranger T*

" He gave his name as
Jones."

Th Opdjrey Family; or, QussUwu of Ae Day.

339

8 ! I suppose Smith, Brown,
wonld have served his pur-
tdly as well ?''

' do yon suppose that Jones
lie man's name, my lady ?*'
lot know, only it seems to me
nprobable tale."
"obablc ! Why, the family be-
lt any rate."

the second son is to be estab-
the neighborhood P'
; he intends to occupy him-
iperintending laud. I have
oghts of employing him my-

9ught you said he inherited
ible property."
but he has determined to let
er enjoy the income ansing
paternal estate, and has also
to care for his sisters' for-
Dr. Brookbank died intestate,
, but this young man says
U make no difference. He
to be actuated by very high

did not answer. She was un-
pecially at the idea of Al-
Aaging her husband's affairs.
jd some sinister motive. Her
noticed the discontented ex-
)f her countenance,
ou not like Mr. Alfred Brook<
le asked.

, I hardly know," said Annie ;
east I do not consider him a
usiness. He was not when I
I ; besides, he is young for an
1 older man might suit you
r Philip."

not sure of that ; old men are
obstinate and to have plans
irn ; I choose to look into my
•self, and to make my own ar-
tts ; so that his inexperience
at little, provided he is indu3>-
d that liis American success
in to be."

knew not what objection to
a dark foreboding came over
iras this in any way diminish-
0ome few weeks atlerward,
ikbonk was announced, and
1^ inatead of receiving him in

his library according to his wodt with
gentlemen visitors, directed him to be
shown into the parlor, in which he and
Lady Conway were sitting. Annie
would have escaped had it been prac-
ticable, but as her departure would
have attracted Sir Philip's observa-
tion, she thought it more prudent to re*
main.

Alfred entered, and his bearing was
so respectful, so distant, that Annie
would have been reassured, had she
not felt that at intervals, when Sir
Philip was not looking, Alfred fixed
his cy^ upon her with the gaze of a
basilisk ; and once when she chanced to
look at him she thought the expression
of his features perfectly demoniacal.
What she had to fear she knew not, but
that she did fear something was cer-
tain.

It was not only Alfred that had come
to reside in the neighborhood ; his mo-
ther and two sisters accompanied him.
The rectory of Estcourt had passed to
another, and there was no mansion on
the paternal acres suited for the refined
tastes of the family, so they had come
to reside with Alfred in his newly pur-
chased dwelling. A certain degree
of visiting between the fistmilies would
have been necessary for old acquaint-
ance sake, but more soon became in-
evitable from the ascendency which
Alfred shortly obtained over the mind
of Sir Philip. He flattered himself into
the baronet's ^ood graces, and made
himself so agreeable tliat Sir Philip
began to think it impossible to live
without him. Annie tried in vain to
stem the torrent of intimacy, that threat-
ened almost to domesticate Alfred in
her house. Sir Philip was far too
wise a man to be governed by his wife,
so he listened to none of her remon*
strances ; and at times there was a look
of triumph, as well as of hatred, in Al-
fred's features, that made her almost
tremble in his presence* Annie was
naturally strong-minded, yet she could
not overcome this sensation, which was
almost a martyrdom, particnkirly as
she suspected Alfred was aware of the
torment the underwent. She wrote to

S40

7^ Gadjreg Fondly; or, QMeOhms aftk$ Dag.

her aunt, who was still at Daiimond
Castle, to request that she and Euphra-
8ie would come and spend some time
with her, hoping to gain courage in
their society, and perhaps protection ;
hut the answer was unpropitious :

^The Duke of Durimond had re-
turned home seriously nnwcll, and
at that moment it would he improper
and unkind to leave the duchess with-
out society."

Annie must, then, endure life as hest
she could. Alfred found himself visit-
ing at Sir Philip's on terms of appar-
ent equality, and often a party was
made up of such society as the neigh-
horhood afforded, expressly for the
purpose of introducing the fiimily so
obnoxious to Annie. Nay, she was in
a manner compelled to take her turn in
visiting them, repugnant as it was to
her feelings.

On these occasions Annie behaved
with condescension and politeness, but
with nothing more. She received Al-
fred with the most formal courtesy; he
returned her salute with one of appar-
ently the most profound respect. Few
more words were interchanged than
were absolutely necessary.

It was the current opinion tliat Lady
Conway liked not the society of her
inferiors, and Sir Philip, participating
in the idea, strove to combat it, although
he was no leveller in general; but in
Alfred's case he thought the prejudice
she entertained ought to yield to such
superior merit

One evening a social party met at
Sir Philip's. Singing and dancing
were going on ; but Alfred was un-
usually dull, he could not be prevailed
upon to join in any amascment. The
baronet, fancying his wife's coldness
might have had some influence in pro-
ducing this effect, said to her in the
hearing of all the party :

^My lady, was Mr. Brookbank so
dull when he visited at Estcourt Hall ?
Did he never sing to you there P'

'^'Mr. Brookbank has a very fine
voice," was the reply ; " I have often
beard him sing beautiful melodies."

^ Nayi then^ call upon him, m memory

of < Auld lang sjme,' to sing I
my lady ; no other has the pi
arouse him to-night."

Annie turned to Alfred and
a dignified manner, ^You h
Philip's request, Mr. Brookbai
you consider it mine ?"

Alfred started, looked at h
bowed. He answered in a ton
that only she could hear its pt

^ You have asked for a ul
song, my lady ; what else can
produce ?"

Declining the offer of an ace
ment, he seated himself at th<
and drew forth notes so wild,
fie, that the whole party were
fied ; then assuming the mien t
ture of one crazed in hb intel
loud and clear voice gave full
the following :

Oh ! bid me not recall the post,
Tboogh calm appear my features no

nid ihough from sight the ferered bli
That caused the splrlt^s orerthrov.

*Tls not In mortal power agrala
Touth*s baoyaat transport to recall

'TIji hushed— forerer hushed — the stn
That could with J07 the heart enthr

visions of truth hare passed me by,
Mocking the sense, with shapes nor

Filling each pulse with melody,
Thrilling the heart with Joys ideal

And freedom, Independence, lore.
In dreams hare risen to my sight—

In dreams essayed my heart to prore.
They ranished at return of UghL

And earth b all unholy now.
Venal its Joys !— its highest blin

To lay that false ideal low-
To crush the hope of happiness.

Lore gone I one wish doth yet remals
One thought the m%ddened brain to

Jot ranished ! Its fell rlral— pain—
Forbids the spirit to forget.

Pain, pain triumphant, speaks of powi
To seise the serpent's foulest sting.

Therewith to bid the tyrant cower.
Back to return the poisoned spring.

Ye^ ! IMl unrell those mocking formi^
Those shapes of grace, all seat firom

I will rereal the latent storms
That 'neath the placid torfaoe d««l

Thus proudly 1*11 unretl deceit ;

Thus fearfuUy I'll stifle pain—
The mask torn off— made known the <

Ne'er shall the flslse one rest agaia

With trust destroyed, with ptoMvrt |
Karth rlelds the soul no fttUng n

ButsUndlng fearless and alon*
The rengeftil tplrltUfW-ldMita.

The emphasis that was given to posed it was crazed bj disappointed

I wild song stnick terror to the love; I sing it now and then as a

rts of the hearerst especially as the warning to young ladies not to be too

^ himself seemed frantic with ex- cruel.''

ment When it was finished a He looked round the rOom for Annie

»e ensued, as if all present wanted as he spoke ; but Annie was no longer

td[e breath ; and Sir Philip found there ; every line of that song had

iee to say : spoken volumes to her, in telling her

"Why, where on earth, Brookbank, what a bitter enemy she had raised,

iyoa learn such a ditty as that? and as the last word vibrated on the

» have absolutely frightened the singer's lips, she left the apartment,

■oglftdies ; they think you half mad, When she returned she was very pale.

nnelf." She felt conscious that Alfred was

* It 18 the lay of a madman in good watching her eveiy movement, and

mest," said Alfred, '< he who com- that feeHng made her miserable.

TO BB OOHTUUKD.

From CluuDben^s Journal.

AUTUMN.

AimniN is dying, alas I Sweet Autumn is near to her death ;
AD through the night may be felt her languid scented breath
Coming and going in gasps long-drawn by the shivering trees,
Out on the misty moors, and down by the dew-drenched leas.

Autinm) is dying, alas ! Her face grows pallid and gray ;
"Rie healthy fiusb of her prime is momently fading away ;
And her sunken cheeks are streaked with a feverish hectic red,
As she gathers the falling leaves, and piles them about her bed.

Aotomn is dying, alas ! Her bosom is rifled and bare ;
Gone is the grain and the fruit, and the flowers out of her hair,
^^luht her faded garment of green is blown about in the lanes,
And her ancient lover, the Sun, looks coldly down on her pains.

Afltomn is dying, alas ! She lies forlorn and alone ;

^little chorusing birds have a broken, unhappy tone

As they fly in a crowd to the hedge when the evening mists arise,

To curtain the bed of death, and shadow the closing eyes.

^tmnn is dying, alas I But to-night the silent doud,

^ppmg great tears of rain, will come and make her a shroud,

^J^ndiDg it this way and that, tenderly round and around,

-*^ catch her away in its arms from the damp, unwholesome ground.

^]>tQnui is dead, alas ! Why alas ? All her labor is done,

^ofected, finished, complete, 'neath the wind and the rain and the sun;

ijflthe earth is enriched — the gamers of men run o'er;

Ikre is food for man and beast, and the stranger that begs at the door.

I^k to thy life, O man ! Swiftly approaches the night ;
Vhstsoever thy hand finds to do, do it with all thy might.
Uwr right on to the end : let thy woiks go forth abrmd ;
Tha tam thy face to the sky, and enter the ^^joy of thy Lard.**

842

I^roieliftum in Eattem Land$,

From The Dablln Borieir.

PROTESTANT PROSELYTISM IN EASTERN LA

There are few impartial aud well-
informed ProteBtants who will not
confess that their missions through-
out the world have inyariablj proved
to be utter failures. No matter to
what sect or denomination they be-
long, or from what country or associa-
tion their fxmds are derived, Protest-
ant missionaries, as preachers of that
gospel about which they speak so
much, never have converted, and we
believe never will, convert the heathen
save by units and dribleU, hardly
worthy of mention. In India, in
Turkey, in Africa, among the South-
Sea Islanders, and the Red Indians
of America, the result of Protestant
missionary labor is the same wher-
ever it has been tried. The people
to whom their missionaries are sent
may, and often do, become more or
less civilized from intercourse with
educated men, and often learn from
those who wish to teach them higher
matters, some of the arts and appli-
ances of European life. Some few
certainly embrace what their preach-
ers deem to be Christianity ; and oc-
casionally, but very seldom, small
ci>mmunities of nominal Cliristians
an* formed by them. But to bring
whole regions of the inhabitants to
the fiH>t of the cit^ss — to convert
whole nations to Christianity — to
prove that their converts have cm-
brac«^ a svstoui in which a man must

• 1. Th^l^vtpfl tn ri:riv'\. N'Lnir "!>*' T*nlh Mii

do what is right as well
what is true — are triu
have hitherto been rese
Catholic Church, and for
But, even humanly sp
quite apart from all consi
the truth as existing onl;
which our Lord himself b
wonder at these results ? 1
who have sojourned in, or
through the lands where
of both religions work, a
compared the Catholic pr
Protestant minister who 1
to preach the gospel in
tries? Take, for insta
country station in Britis!
there a Protestant missic
place? If so, he is a m
siderably more than the
and staff of apostolic day
session. As wealth goes
lisiimen in the East, he is
rich; but he is neverthel
his ease, and certainly
nothing. lie has his com!
galow ; his wife and child
him ; the modest one-hors
not wanting for the even
himself and family ; nor
ture of his house such
of moderate means need d
lias a regular income fron
he n'presents ; and his al
generally such as, with )
win allow of his living ir
fort. And, finally, if be 1
sick to remain in the
means of taking him ho
England or America are
at a moment's notice,
ally a good lingubt ; for I
ing else to do daring six
week, he devotes much o
the stod J of the Temacnk

Protestant ProulytUm in JBditem Lands.

84d

7 the European officers of tne
for he 18 often the only person
' see in the shape of a clergy-
e is almost ali^ajs an honest,
nan, with little or no know-
the world, and, if possible,
le natives to whom he is sent
b. This, however, does not
for, except among his own
servants, he makes no con-
1 has but few hearers. There
itive harm in him, but as lit-
good. He is a fair sample
s-minded Calvinist, but is cer-
missionary, as Catholics un-
tile word. So far from hav-
I up anything to come out to
th he, his wife, and his — gen-
ry numerous — offspring are
:ter off than if he had re-
a his native Lanarkshire or
ania. If he belongs to the
\f England, he is very often
n by birth, and appears to
ken orders " in the establish-
houlr having for a moment
d his own peculiar theological
5ome few Englishmen— liter-
ily ever University men —
e found here and there, as
Church missionaries ; but
few and far between, nor do
ira oHen show greater results
le of their Presbyterian fel-
ers. Even Dr. Littledale*
" the pitiful history of Angli-
'oHS to the heathen;* and he
h great truth have extended
ct to the missions of every
lomination of Protestantism.
trast to the Protestant, take
»pean Catholic missionary in
as apart from the native-bom
He is invariably a volunteer
«rky either a monk or a secular
\iOj aspiring to more severe
hia Master's vineyard, has
e hard and rugged path of a
of the gospel in pagan lands.
eral rule, you will probably
living in an humble room in
e bazaar, and depending for

yOmAaoaxj Aspect of Ritualism, in the
kt World. (London: Longmani.)

his daily bread upon the charity of his
flock, or the contributions of any Eng-
lish Catholic officer or civilian who
may happen to be in the neighbor-
hood. He is Catholic in his nation as
in his creed; for you may find him
French, Belgian, Italian, Spanish, '
Irish, or English. The present writer
has met a French nobleman and the
son of a wealthy Yorkshire squire la-
boring and preachmg as Jesuit ISdBs-
sionaries to the natives of India and the
poor Irish soldiers who form so large a
portion of every garrison in that coun-
try. Is it, then, to be wondered at if,
notwithstanding their superior means
and far greater worldly *' respectabili-
ty," the Protestant missionaries do
not succeed as ours do; or rather,
that whereas our missions are never
without fruit, theirs seldom show
forth even a few sickly leaves ? But
the simple fact is, the missionary spirit
—-or rather the spirit which leads a
man, if he believes that duty to Grod
calls him to abandon family, wealth,
comfort, health, nay, life itself— never
has, and never can be, understood
by Protestants, whether climbing the
heights of rituaUsm, or sunk in the
deptlis of Socinianism. Catholics are
often angry with Protestants, because
tlie latter are uncharitable respecting
monks, priests, and nuns. Catholics
are wrong in being angry. Hardly
any person who is not a Catholic can
understand the spirit which moves men
and women to make such sacrifices for
the love of God, and counts the loss as
so much gain. The very idea of these
acts is to him as color to one who has
been blind from his birth : he not only
cannot understand it, but you cannot
explain it to him. This is a truth to
which every convert will bear testi-
mony, afler liis eyes have been opened
to the truths of God's one and only*
Church, and which even few of those
who have been Catholic from their
youth upward can realize.

But notwithstanding '*the pitiful
history" of Protestant missions to the
heathen, the work of these gentlemen
in that direction is not deMrviiig of

844

BrolMUM ProHtyHtm in JScutem Ltmii,

other gentiment than that of pitj. If
men will labor in fields where they
can bring forth no harvest, and if
others will pay them for doing no good,
the affiiir is theirs, not ours. They
never can do harm to th|e Church in
those regions* for they achieve neither
good nor evil to any one, farther than
by giving the natives in places where
there are no Catholic missionaries a
veiy erroneous idea as to what the du-
ties of a Christian teacher ought to be.
Not so, however, in those countries
where Protestantism has sent its emis-
saries to undermine the faith which
fiourished among the inhabitants cen-
turies before the very name of Prot-
estant was known or heard of. To
help such undertakings, " The Turk-
ish Missions- Aid Society" was estab-
lished and is kept up, and it is to the
two reports of that society at the head
of the list of works under notice, that
we would call the especial attention
of Protestants, even more than Cath-
olics, throughout England.

The "I^ws and Regulations** of
*< The Turkish Missions-Aid Society"
are divided into nine clauses, and in
the second of these we are told that —

** The object of this society is not to originate
a new mission, but to aid existing cTangclical
mimions in the Turkish empire, especially the
American.*'

What these " evangelicals** missions
are, and to whom the ^ American'* mis-
sionaries are sent, we shall sec pres-
ently. As a matter of course, the so-
ciety is supported by the very cream
of "evangelical*' Protestantism, hav-
ing Jjord Shaftesbury for its President,
Lord Ebury as Vice-President, and
Mr. Kinnaird as Treasurer. The sub-
scriptions are very large indeed, and
from the ** statement** furnished by the
report for 1864-65, we find that no
less a sum than £24,672 5s, has been
sent out to the East for " native agen-
cies** alone, since the commencement
of the society, now about eleven years
ago ; this, of course, being all in addi-
tion to the very heavy sums and
comfortable salaries furnished by the
American society, called the Board

of Foreign Missions, b;
missions and missionar
tained.

It would appear that
occupied by these Amei
are five in number, an
condition of them is thu
in the eleventh, the late
port, now before us :

ntiOM. 1

1 J

WeftiemTarkifj'

€fc>t!trftl Torfcej'

F:4.«tern TnrJtty

flp

SlTlfcll ...

KMtorLu . .

x&\m

— -^

Total . .

m\^

These "missions" h
work, some more, some '.
a fair average for the w!
about twenty- five ycar«
observed that in the five
are but 2,642 *• chureh ,
what, among Catholic
termed communicant8.
als who come under the I
age Sabbath Attendance
be termed Protestant tl
the duke of Sutherlxmd
a Catholic because he
at the funeral of Card!
But we will grant, for tl
gument, that the 2,642 *
bcrs ** arc earnest, consi
ants. If so, and tsdking ii
only the funds furnished
ish Missions- Aid Sode
above, these converts
valuable, for they ha
something less than ter
But if to the £24,672 .
that the American Boai
has paid in the same pei
for missionaries, for "
ants,'* for schoolmasters,
of churches, printing, 1
passage-money of mis
their families to and fro
shall find that there is i
individuals whose conv
one way and another
three tlM>uBand poands.

Pr<4€9UaU Prose^Um in Eastern Lands.

845

^ht to be Btaaoch anti-papists,
religion has been a very high-
rticle.

IS turn for a moment to the
t>ook on the list at the head of
cle. No one who has read a
be well-known Mr. Urquhart s
ritings on political questions,
r accuse him of Catholic tend-
m any subject. He is not a
ideed ; nor, again, does he ever
iie past history of Protcstant-
he is too well read to uphold
?ery honest man, with the
Ige of an ordinary school-boy,
ndemn. In oriental matters,
»r, Mr. Urquhart has his pe-
iewB ; but as these have noth-
itever to do with the questions
»tant and Catholic, missionary
missionary, we may fairly ac-
at he says on the subject as
imony of an impartial witness,
ben, is what he writes respect^
Catholic clergy and the secta-
Mionaries in Syria and Mount
d:

Boman Catholic regular and secular
e established here as in any other
latholic country ;|tbat is to say, they
m of flocks, and not missionaries,
^estants have no flocks, and they are
a view to ereaiing them, Twentt-
raAKD POUNDS are yearly subscribed
lited States for that object, and the
ies come here having to justify the
they receiTe." — TheL^anoriy vol. ii.

italics in the above quotation
own, and we have thus mark-
rords in order to draw attention
; every traveller in the East,
en with the "pure gospel"
has borne testimony. But let
n <Hice more to the *^ statement''
lye missionary '* fields " occu-
the Americans in the East.
qufaart would never make an
n like the above without chap-
rerse for what he says ; and
e writes that twenty-five
JTD POUNDS are yearly sub-
in the United States to support
ssiooaries in the East, we may
Uj consider the statement to

be true. We cannot, however, suppose
that for this enormous sum the missions
in Syria only are meant, for then each
one of the two hundred ^ church mem-
bers '' with which that land is blessed
would cost a small fortune in himself.
But at the same time it is impossible
not to allow that he must mean the
American missionary establishments
in the East generally — the five "fields,"
of which a <* statement" has been
copied above, and the total of whose
" church members " amounts to 2,642.
And even with this calculation it will
be seen that every Protestant commu-
nicant costs the pretty little cmnual sum
of about £9 10s. for his conversion,
and subsequent religious instruction.
We are given to finding fault, and not
unnaturally so, with the cost of the
Established Church in Ireland; but
what is this when compared with the
price of the " Gospel in Turkey " ? It
is doubtful whether — apart, perhaps,
from some othex Protestant missionary
" field " of which we are yet ignorant
— the religious instruction of any
people in the known world costs £3
much. It is as if each ten individuals
had a curate entirely to themselves,
and each hundred " church members "
a very well-paid private Anglican rec-
tor of their own. No wonder that we
are told the Syrian Protestant con-
verts think highly of their new creed,
" the Gospel of Christ," as it is modest-
ly called. In a country where every-
thing is more or less measured by a
monetary standard, a convert for whose
spiritual well-being £9 10«. per annum
is paid must believe himself to be in
a state of exaltation, considering that
had he remained in his own church,
his Maronite, Greek, Greek Catholic,
or Armenian priest — having to say
mass every day, to attend to some one
or two thousand parishioners probably
scattered over a large district — would
consider himself very fortunate indeed
if he had a stipend of two thousand
piastres a year, or about £20, of which
more than half would be paid in com,
oil, or fruits. The fathers of the Jesuit
mission in Syria are allowed a thou-

346

I^estant J^vse'ytiim in JBattem Limit,

saod francs, £40, for the travelling ex-
pcnces, clothing, table, etc., of each
priest when engaged on missionary
work away from- the house of his com-
munity ; how, then, is it that the
American missionaries cost so very
much more? We will take up our
quotation from Mr. Urquhart again,
at the point where we Ictl off:

"They (the American missionaries) have
town-house and country-house, horses to rido
and an establishment and a tabic wliich
spcalcs well for the tasto of the citizens of
the United States. These are results obtain-
ed by exertion and combination, and which,
afTording enjoyment in their possession,
prompt to efforts for their retention. The
persons thus raised to affluence and consider-
ation in a fine and luxurious climate would
have to sink back to hard conditions of life,
if not to want and destitution. This relapse
presents itself as the consequence of failing
in the creating of congregations, or at least
of supplying to those who subscribe the funds
plausible grounds for expecting that the con-
summation was near. Looking at the country,
nothing can be more painful and more hope-
less than the contort: nowhere is an ear
o|>en. As to converting the Turks, they
might just as well try to convert the Arcli-
biahop of Canterbury.

« » « « «

*' As to converting the Jews, it would be
much better for the United States to soiid
missionaries to Monmouth-street. There
remain, then, but the Maronite, the Greek,
the Greek Catholic, Armenian, and Xestorian
churches, that is to say Christians, to con-
vert. From the pre-existing animositiis
among the Christians, the missionaries could
not so much as open their mouths to any of
the members of these communities on t!ie
Bubject of religion, and therefore it is a total-
ly different course that they have adopted.
They have offered themselves as schoolnms-
tcrs ; not as persons depending for remuner-
ation on their claims to the confidence of
parents, and on their proficiency ; but sup-
plying instruction gratuitously, and adding
thereto remuneration to the scholars in
various shapes. Their admission in this form
has been forced upon the jwople by the Turk-
ish government. Tlie condition, however,
has been appended to it, that they should not
attempt to interfere with the religious belief
of the pupils. Tliis has been going on for
years ; the money continuing to be supplied
on the grounds that Protestant congregations
arc being created, and the proceeds enjoyed
by the missionaries on their undertaking that
they shall not create them.

" The statistical under-current is, however,
veiled or disguised from the men (the mis-

sionaries) tbemmlTes. Tho o
has, so to say, suoceeded the
new men come out occupied w
zeal, not caring critically to exai
tion in which they stand, ani
once on a contest already eng
arc filled with contempt fo
around them ; and to religioufl
sufficiently active impulse, is su
necessity of furnishing report
meetings and periodicals in
ports which, failing to contain i
])roselytc8 secured, have at la
narratives of contests undertake
dom endured." — 7A<r Lebanon, i
80.

Our author has, in the
paragraph, certainly touch
the weak points of Protests
ary working. Even a curse
of the reports before u
every word of this qnotatit
book. Like every Prostest
of missionary work, the Ti
sions-Aid Society's lleport
ktrded with scriptural quoU
ing always the same signific
the time for seeing the re
labor has not yet coinc, ba
be ; or, as Mr. Urquhart p
supply to those who sul
funds, plausible grounds foi
that the consummation is n

Some years ago, a gra
quasi martyrdom was r
Exeter Hall, and must
worth much money to tl
who furnish missionary fui
East, both in England an<
It was the cause of man;
bf ing asked, and much corr
being furnished, in both
Parliament. Dispatches w
the Turkish Government
and the life of Lord Stratfc
clifft?, who was tlien our ref
at the Porte, made a bun
for a time with extra work,
was that some American
missionaries, when '* pre^
Gospel" on Mount Lebj
stoned and otherwise ill-tn
finally turned out of the
w^hicli they resided ; some
ing badly wounded. Th
well told, but, like other
the kind, was allowed to 1

I*rot$$tani Proiel^tm in Eastern Zancb.

817

BB it had served its purpose.
Mr. Urquhart's version of the
nd, gathered as it was in the
itself, is not unlikely to prove
version of the story :

oisrionaries arriTing at Eden (a tU-
far from the celebrated cedars of
the inhabitants consisting entirely
ite Catholics) entered a house, and
ihemselves to occupy it The mas-
) house told them that ho would not
not receive them. They persisted,
ig him in the name of the Turkish
8. A great commotion ensued, and
e, with the fear of the Turkish
B before their eyes, devised a plan
ging the missionaries by unroofing
A roof in the Lebanon is not
of tiles and rafters; to touch a
rery serious affair, not to be undcr-
wantonncss. The people had the
n of seeing the missionaries mount
t, without any act on their part
aid expose them to after-rctribu-
ke Lcbanotiy vol ii. p. 82.

I said before, Mr. Urquhart is
e very last men who could be
of any leaning toward Catho-
ill less of any affection toward
ve Christian population of
ad Lebanon. Of this his
bear witness in every chap-
it in a dozen instances he
hat we have so often heard
by travellers returned from
ions, that the people do not
I do not wish for, the Ameri-
onaries, and would far rather
it them. Also tliat wherever
>testant apostles are located,
sence is a continual source
3 and annoyance, by causing
among the people, and that
om in the land is most cer-
it conducive cither to the
Grod on high, or of peace on
aen of good will. That their
nission has been a most com-
gious fiascoy is pretty well
T the retums whicli at page
)py from these reports. If
r will but turn back to it, lie
that with twenty-four mis-
and thirty-seven native as-
le number of " church mem-
be Syrian *» field' amounts to
than two hundred, and this

after the Americans have worked as
missionaries in this 'Afield" for the
last quarter of a century or more.
Surely no clearer proof than this is
wanting for endorsing what Mr. Urqu-
hart has said above respecting the
way and the reason why these reli-
gious undertakings arc puffed up, and
** plausible grounds" given for expect-
ing that the consummation of " gospel"
triumph is at (land.

There is, perhaps, no Christian pop-
ulation in the world more united as a
body, more attached to their clergy,
more faithful in their holding to the See
of Peter, or more orthodox in every
particle of their faith, than the Maro-
nites of Mount Lebanon. To illus-
trate, even in the most superficial man-
ner, the history and ritual of this sin-
gular people would extend this paper
far beyond our limits. Suffice it to
say that upward of one thousaxd
years before the discovery of America,
the holy sacrifice of the mass was
offered up in their churches, and mat-
ins, lauds, vespers, and complins sung
every morning and evening in their
sanctuaries, just as at the present day.
Their name is derived from tliat of St.
Maroun, a holy hermit, who, in the
fourth century, when the heresies of
Eutyches and the errors of Monothel-
ism were so common throughout the
East, preser\'ed the inhabitants of
Lebanon and the adjacent parts from
those influences. "The Maronites,"
says Mgr. Patterson, in his work, which
is the third on our Ibt at the head of
this paper, —

** The Maronitos maintain that they have
never swerved from the Catholic faith, and
love to assert that their Patriarch is the only
one whose spiritual luieagc from St Peter, in
tlic see of Antioch, has been unbroken by the
tamt of heresy or achism." (P. 889.)

Their secular clergy number about
1,200, and the regulars, inhabiting six-
ty-seven monasteries, comprise some
1,400 monks, priests, and lay brothers.
They have besides fifteen convents, in
which there are about 300 nuns.

*^ The blessings of education (continues the
same author) are widely diffused among the

348

PrutuUaU ProielyiUm in EtuUm LemiB.

Maronite& AlmoBt all are able to read and
write ; and though few even of the clotty can
be called learned, they are all sufficientlj in-
Btracted in the most necessary things, and
especially in the practical knowledge «f their
faith. Offences are rare among them,
crimes almost unknown. The number of
the Maronites of Lebanon appears to be
about 260,000. In 1180, William of Tyre
estimated them at more than 40,000; in
1784 Yolney phu^ them at 116,000; and
Perrier, in 1840, at 220,000. Elsewhere they
are hardly to be found ; the largest number
I know of is at Cyprus, where there are about
1,600. A few also are found at Aleppo and
Damascus, and some at Cypnis.

"There are (among the Maronites of Leb-
anon) four principal colleges for the educa-
tion of the clergy. The most ancient is that
of Ain Warka, in which between thirty and
forty pupils are educated. They are taught
Arabic (their vernacular), Syriac, which is the
liturgical language of this rite ; logic, moral
theology, Italian, and LaUn. ^ exhibitions
for the maintenance of as many scholars at
the College of Propaganda were attached to
this college. At the time of tiie first French
occupation of Rome, the funds which pro-
Tided for them were seized, and have never
been restored ; but the pupils still go to Rome,
and many of them are to be met with in the
higher ranks of the Maronite clergy." (P.
888.)

It is then to turn this people, and
these priests, from the faith whicli thej
have so long and so hone^tlj held, and
from the spiritual paths in which thej
have walk^ for at least fifteen hun-
dred years, that respectable black-
coated American gentlemen, whose ex-
perience of life has been confined to
Boston or New York, are sent over
and maintained by the funds furnished
by the zealous evangelicals of Eng-
land and the United States. No won-
der if those to whom they come would
rather be without them. With the
people whom they are sent to ** con-
vert" they have not a single idea in
common. The very vernacular of the
country has to be studied and leai-nt by
them (an undertaking of at least two
or three years, as Arabic is perhaps
the most difficult language in the world
for an adult to acquire a proficiency in),
before they can preach or even con-
verse witli those whom they wish to
teach what they themselves deem, the

truths of eternal life. 1
most remote approach to a
a ritual, and without evex
liturgy to recommend then
among a people who from
infancy are perhaps more f!
the meaning and teachinf
ritualism than any natioi
Mr. Urquhart,in the qnotat
given elsewhere, says of
ican missionaries, that ^ as
ing the Turks, they might
try to convert the ArchbisJ
terbury f might he not ha
same as to the converting
ronites? From the 2(H
members," which the reti
Turkish Missions- Aid Sod
the result of the ^missio
on the Syrian ** field" durii
ter of a century and mon
work has been going on, if
the personal servants of i
four missionaries, and of
seven native assistants, hov
then be left as real, true, 8
converts from their own f
which the American i
would teach them ? " It h
served," says Mr. Urquhar
proselytism carried on is no
posed in Europe, against v
but between Christians ;"•
here is proselytism of the
kind forced upon a people a:
will, by the inhabitants >
far-off country, who woul
much better if they spent t
£25,000 among themselve
verting" the thousands of
pagans to be seen daily in
of every great town of Ei
America, and whose *'fait
time to time shown in their
We have no desire to
the ridicule they deserve i
canting sentences and so-ci
tural ejacuhitions with whi
port of the Turkish M
Society is interlarded. All
perused similar documenti
well acquainted with the wf

* The Lebuon, ToL U. pi.

I¥(4etiani Proselytism in Eastern Landi.

849

Holy Writ are made to

bj the writer. Nor do
sJte our readers laugh hj
jome of the " pious " an-
L are to be met with in
Thus it may, or may

that at Nicomedia **a
;o all was darkness and
; it can hardly be taken
'rench would call ^au
b two Armenian priests
y were " awakened " by
^rmeno-Turkish transla-
Fryman's Daughter, and
he conversion of these

flourishing church, ynih
jgation, has been gathered

a home mission formed
Grospel to the towns and
nd.* Also, from a per-
dge of the facts, we per-

to doubt whether the so-
onary " work in Constan-
>een, to say the least of

carried on ; and whether,
ars ago, the zeal without
I the part of the mission-
rery nearly cause a rising

Mahometan population,
•al massacre of all the
>ulation in that city. Nor
mony of Anglicans, Pres-
i other Protestants— can
to the eulogium sung in
le excellent Bishop Gro-
ive far more serious mat-
!th as regards the Amer-
\ in Syria and the East,
, if they are in the least
stent, Protestants more
C8, whom it really does

would do well to take

jndix to his ** Tour," Mgr.
5, with a fairness and im-
judgment which cannot
praised, investigated the
what it is that the native
n the East really believe
tKess of their so-called
' is complete. And it
mt of place here to men-

Bikiua Beport of Ui« Turkish Mb-

tion that the present writer, who has
lately returned from a residence of
nearly ten years in those countries,
entirely and to the letter agrees with
what this author has stated. Were it
allowable to mention names, he could
also adduce the authority of many
Englishmen who have resided in
Smyrna, Constantinople, Beyrout, Da-
mascus, the Lebanon, and other parts
of the East, all of them Protestants,
most of them attending every Sunday
the English ministrations of the Amer-
ican mbsionaries, and some of them
even communicants in theu: churches.
The evidence of these is varied in
different points, but, as a whole, certain
pages of Dr. Patterson's appendix
might serve as a precis of the various
opinions which these gentlemen have
spoken, and which the writer himself
has fonned during his prolonged res-
idence in the East. Be it, however,
noted, that the objections here raised
are not against the American mission-
aries themselves, but against the resuU
of their labors, as well as against those
of other Protestant missionaries^-
wherever throughout these lands their
labors have produced any fruit what-
ever in the shape of " converts."

"Most true it is," says Mgr. Patterson,
'* that though large sums are expended yearly
by Protestants for their missions, the result
is nevertheless small indeed ; but yet a great
work is being done (I sincerely think unin-
tentionally) by those establishments. T/u
faith of hundreds and thousanda in their own
religion is being shaken^ without any <UherfaHh
being substituted for U* The missionaries*
reports are full of expressions to the effect
that many persons come to them, declaring
their readiness to hear what tlicy had to say,
and their disbelief of their own national or
common faith ; and yet the * converts ' reg-
istered by themselves may be told in nnits,
or at most by tens. Accordmgly, I nev«r
came in contact with * liberals ' in politics or
religion, whether Jew, Christian, or Clentile,
who did not commence the conversation (on
the supposition that I was a Protestant) by
declaring their disbelief of this or that current
dogma of their faith ; and in all such cases I
found I was expected, at a ProUatani^ to ap-

* The Italics an our own, and we give them to
mmrk the pith of th« whole question, with which nearij
all Protectants, as well as every CathoUc we bav* mtl^
that have InhaUtad ^jrla, Paleetiiit, or tto Ho^
Land te any Una, awt ftdlj oonavr.

850

ProUstant ProseUfiUm in EoMterm Larndg.

plaud and admire their lamentable condition
of mind. I repeat, most empliatically, that I
never saw a single person of this description
who had one doctrine to affirm. The work
of the Protestant missions is simply destrtic-
tivo. In Turlcey it is detaching Mohammedan
subjects from their allegiance to their spiritiial
and temporal head ; in Greece it is introduc-
ing the mind of youth to the conceit of private
judgment ; in E;;ypt it does the same for the
Copts ; and in Mesopotamia for the Nestori-
ans. The missionaries report that, among
the Jews, they prefer to have to do with the
rationalists rather than with the Talmudists ;
and acting on that principle everywhere, they
first malce a tabula rasa of minds, on which
they never afterward succeed in inscribing
the laws of sincere faith or consistent prao>
Ucc.** (P. 456.)

Here, then, we have, in a few words,
an account of what the teachings of
the Protestant missionaries in the
East result in. They take away the
faith that is in these people, and give
them nothing in return.* In other
and plainer words, the end of all this
teaching, and preaching, and denounc-
ing of ** popish" docrines, is simple
unbelief or infidelity, embellished
with Scriptural verses and the current
cant of the evangelical school. Do
the subscribers to the Turkish Mis-
sions-Aid Society contemplate this as
one of the results of their liberal do-
nations ? Is (his what the society put
forth so boldly as the " Gospel in Tur-
key?'* Is it for such a change that
the traditions mounting to within less
than four hundred years of our Lord's
sojourn on earth, preserved as they
are by a people living in the land
which he inhabited, are to be cast off?
Surely, even from the most enthusi-
astic of the evangelical school, these
questions can have but one answer.f

• An Entrllsh ofllclal who had resided upward of
cwenty-flve years in Syria, and wlio U a very earnest
Proteitant, told the present writer exactly the wme.
•'The American mlssionarie*," lie iwld. "destroy
the faith theve native Ciiri.otians had, but give thein
DO other in return. The consequence is, that they
invariably become more ralionalisfts."

t About four years aco, a |>arty of English Imvel-
lert were Journeying over Mount I/eban«in. While
halting at a roadiiide '* klian." they were accosted
by a native who gpoke Enjrlish very well. They
asked him who he wa«i, and wiiere he had learnt their
language. He Kiid he was, or had boon, servant to
one of the American missionaries, naming the gentle-
man, and that he wai " a good ProtesUnt." One of
the ladlet present put a few questions to him, and
aOMng dhera, asked him what he now believed of
/ tb» Vlri^ Maryr " That for the Virgin Marj,'*

And let not the subject be eitb
derstood or blinked. Take a
Englishmen really converBant
ways of the country and the
the inhabitants ; let them all
estants, and even be of th*
finding no other Protestant :
tion, attend the chapels of th<
can missionaries. Of the twi
tainly nine will tell you that,
well-meaning and honest mei
way, the preaching of the P
missionaries in the East pui
but never builds up belief, an
sober truth the native Protesti
verts " are but so many free
— theoretical Christians, but
infidels. There is, with re
this part of our subject, one ;
tract from Mgr. Patterson"
which, although somewhat
we find so much to the purp
respect to some of the quea
the day, that we copy it entip

" The Protestant sects of the Wes
author) are repi\»3enteti in the £i
sions of several denominations;
they all represent but one princip
the dene^ation of spiritual authoi
basis of belief, it is unnecesstary to (
them here. At first sight it mig
that the Episco{>alians, or rcproser
tlie Anglican establishment, should
a distinct notice, since they have
(that of episcopal superintendent
mon with the Eastern sects ; but
considere<l, not merelv that the fa
havini; real bishops is denied by a
the Kastjf as well as by the Cathol

paid the mliicreantf fpitting at the Mm
u^int; an Arabic gesture indicating the
tempt. The la<ly — an Anglican, not a <
courw dropped tlic conversation, feeling t
to continue it. Some days afterward th*
anecdote to the wife of an American miu
tlic latter was not at all shocked, mereir
remark. *' I gufm thf man had ffi.it rw
8ttpri'Htition«y Is this wtiat they call «
the native Christians?

♦ No one interested in the pretent tplrll
the KH^t siiould l>e without this rolame
traveller to l*alestinc — Catholic or Proteit
take it with him.

t Tliis. be it remembered, was written
years before the recent attempt at nnkm
of certnin Anftlicanii with the Greek Cha
Mfrr. Ihitterrion says in tlie simple truth,
Armed hy numerous conversations whicli
writer had, during a ten years* residence
with several p.itriarchs and nnmcroi
priest?, and deacons of the Greek, Ana
torian, Copt, and Jacobite sects. All t
hate the very name of Rome, but they a
she has real bishops and a real prlerthood
and all deny that the Aof Ucan Chureb

Pti^uUnU JProielyHsm in Eastern LandSf

851

thej themselres entirely repudiate
s which might be founded on their
possession of an apostolic com-
id authority through the episcopate ;
I, moreover, it is remembered that
)er8ons who think differently on
Its are wholly unrepresented in the
leems evident that the distinction
unreal. Further, the Protestant
n the East are mainly supplied by
in the communion of the Establish*
England, but often not episcopally
or ordained, and in all cases a per-
ty is admitted between such as are
ed and those who are not. Hence
iO-Lutheran * Episcopalians,* the
nts, the American Congregational-
ict in unison, and on one principle,
h that the belief they advocate in
ctrines is to be acquired by each
through a perusal of certain writ-
must be held by him as the result
ions proceeding from his own in-
1 of those writmgs, which they as-
I the inspired word of God. This

they call ^the right of private
I

,c very terms of the Protestant prin-
I represented, involve, not merely a
of existing authorities, but also of
1 presents that system for the ac-
>f Easttcm Christians. Those, how-
advocate its claims are not usually
nd by the laws of consistency in
oagh they will have every man to
(acred Scriptures (that is, their ver-
em) and to judge for himself, they
a few doctrines, built on thoin, as
>se, to which they attach an import-
1 to that ascribed by Catholics to
LS of faith. Of these, the chief is
• terra 'justification by faith only *
ine which teaches that man is ac-
lut not made) fit for eternal life in
presence, by a suhjcctive act or
of the mind, called by them
This 'faith' is not the 'faith'
^cal writers, but a persnasion, or
ic feeling, on the part of the in-
hat he is saved from eternal death
Tificc of the cross. Laying such
this view does on a persuasion, or
the mind, it might be expected
acts of the mind would be regarJ-
se teachers as of coguate hnport-
ith singular inconsistency, how-
regard all such acts, whether of

Book of Common Prayer, translated Into
ery often met with throuKhout the Fk»t.
wl appear to have impressed the Oriental
rbether In communion with the See of
t, very favorably respecting the Est.ib-
•ch of this country. The Thirty-nine
f rejnurd with especial horror, as showing
to be heretical at core. Nor have the
the Anglican Church and Anglican
(enualem done much to remove this im-
H nUhar the contrary.

love, hope, or fear, or the like, as not only
unimportant or indifferent, but even sinful in
fact or tendency. The one operation of the
soul to which they attach salvation is that of
persuasion that itself is saved. To apcount
for so arbitrary a distinction, they alle<;e
that this persuasion is not a natural gift,
but a divine grace — or, rather, the divine
grace; for in it are contained, and from
it flow, all those good results which Catho-
lic writers call 'graces;' such as humility,
charity, hope, etc. This extraordinary and
almost inexplicable doctrine, they consider
not only conveyed in Holy Scripture, but the
whole sum and substance of its teachings ; and
they allege portions of the epistles of St. Paul,
in which he declares that man is not justified
by works, done irrespectively of the divine
sacrifice of the cross, to prove that all works
or acts of the mind (saving always the one
act of persuasion, which they call * faith ')
are Talueless and ineffectual to work out
salvation. The teachers of this view among
us are often pious persons, who act morally
from natural good feelings ; but the Eastern
mind is too consistent and too voluptuous to
imit;itc them. If it is possible, they say, to-
attain salvation by means of a sentiment so
pleasant, we regard it as quite unnecessary
to add to it supererogatory performances dis-
agreeable to our inclmations.'^ (P. 453.)

Here, io sober fact, and if we will
only give things their right names, is
one of the chief reasons of such
** conversions " as take place in the
East to Protestantism. An oriental
mind is difficult to fathom at once ;
but take any of the professed Prot-
estants in Syria or other parts of
Turkey, clear away all the rubbish
they have learnt to talk in imitation
of their new teacliers — separate if
you can (and it is merely a matter of
time and patience) all the prating
about " tlie Lord Jesus," and *^ the
blessed Scriptures," the " teaching of
the Spirit," and suchlike spiritual
mou things, from wliat are the actual
thoughts of the individual and the
real reasons for his change, and you
will invariably find at the bottom of
his mind the all-prevailing idea, that
of what use are confession, penance,
private prayer, fasting, giving alms,
and other good works, when salvation
can be acoooiplished by the far more
easy and pleasant process of a mere
sentiment of the mind, which any man
can train his understanding into Ixy-

858

PiratesUmi Pro9eiyti$m in BaiUism LcmJbm

lieving when he wishes to do so. And
these, be it understood, are the best
of the converts. As Mgr. Patterson
says of them : —

**Such persona as I am alluding to have
really embraced the principle on which Prot-
estantism rests. They have thrown off the
authority of their own belief, not to accept
the formula of another, but to r^ect all au-
thority. They are like the German 'philo-
sophic* Protestants, or the French univer-
sitarics of the West — their conduct is often
irreproachable, but their belief is a blank,
and their principles distinctly Antinomian,
even when they themselves do not put them
in practice. I mamtain that to one class or
other of these all the proselytes made to
Protestauism in the East belong. They are
either worthless persons, who are happy to
substitute an easy-simulated sentiment for
whatever amount of discipline their com-
munion imposed, or they arc * philosophers,*
sceptics, and infidels. The reports of these
allegations, and the existing state of religious
and political parties in the East, give scope
for these resulu." (P. 453.)

There are, however, two other rea-
sons, which also act powerfully upon
such natives of the East as come, under
the influence of Protestant mission-
ary teaching, and of which when they
have abandoned their own creed, they
take especial pride in the possession.
The one is the notion which they im-
bibe from certain misquotations of
Holy Writ, as well as from ill-judged
(even looking at it from a Protestant
point of view) teaching on the part of
their new pastors ; namely, that every
man is ^' a priest unto Grod," and that
once a Protestant and a *' church-mem-
ber," they are as high in spiritual
rank, and far superior in '* saving
faith" to those whom they formerly
regarded and respected as their clergy.
The idea is, of course, utterly false,
and childish in the extreme, to our
views. But the native mind can only
be judged by its own standards of
worth, and the fact remains as we
have said. That the Protestant mis-
sionaries would knowingly foster such
notions it would be uncharitable to
believe; but that such is another
result of their teaching there can be
no doubt whatever. The missionaries
tbemselveBy however, see very little

indeed of their congregationSi
they are, save at prayer-meel
preachuigs once or twice in t
It is a curious fact, but one n
struck many even of those w
not yet found courage to kn
ask for admittance into the
Church, that in proportion at
or people, or nation, stray far ;
unity of the one true fold, so
pastors and teachers neglect
spise that visiting and lookh
their flocks, which forms with
a prominent part of everj
priest's or missionary's duty
High - Church Anglican Pi
clergymen — although still v
short of what is done by our c
come next to the Catholic i
this work ; and as we deso
scale of Protestantism, we i
practice more and more rare,
the Socinians such acts of sup
tion on the part of their preac
never heard of. With Protest
sionaries in the East the pn
exceedingly rare: perhaps i
garded as an infringement u]
religious liberty ?

The third reason which has
very generally, if not alwayf
ence in making the native o
Palestine, or other Eastern Li
brace Protestantism, is that \
has done so, the fact of his
proselyte puts him indirect!
the "protection" of the Ed
American consul, if such ai
there is — and there generally
within even a couple of days*
from the convert's place of
Not that the individual is at <
on the rolls of the English oi
can subjects. Such was son
ago the practice; but now I
shame's sake this has been
But, as the English consuls
consuls, and vice-consuls have
standing order to ^ protect" al
tants against the tyranny or
of the local authorities ; and ;
native Protestant has nearly
some grievance which he inak<
be an iigostioe oommitled on

IVoieitant Prosd^Htm in Eattem Lomdi.

868

f w a Protestant, bo his com-
nyariablj finds its way to the

consulate, and either the
' the office or one of his native
en deems it imperative upon

interfere, if not officially, at
s officiously, with the pasha or
uthority of the place. As a
Df course the complaint is lis-
), and — justice or not justice —
otected" of the consul gets what
justice, but which his opponent
eems the very reverse. For,
[narked, that, as a general rule
Cast, ^ justice^' means obtaining
ra want, not what is yours by
equity. Your complaint, and
1 Europe we call justice, may
e some side. If so, all the bet-
; if not, you will term your view
Ei£^r *' justice" all the same;
jou don*t get what you want,
\ liitjustly treated. This sort
aistration is but too often ruled
consuls, and the ^' converts^'
ill well how to make use of it.
who has not lived in the Turk-
inions can imagine the power
n European consul or vice-con-
m those countries. Mr. Urqu-
3 done good service in expos-
evil, which is, in point of facf,
he chief reasons why the Otto-
apire has been gradually but
rerging toward ruin since the
consular power became virtu-
greater than that of the local
y. Of this interference of one
in the affairs of another, Mr.
It says, it presents " a terrible
t for the human race ; for it in-
the extinction of each people,
\ absorption ultimately of the
n some one government more
08 than the rest." All the
)Qfvemments of Europe have
ore or less guilty of this med-
ith the executive of Turkey,
lably England, France, and

in 'whose hands every local
I a plaything, to be tossed here
re at wilL England says— or.
each English consul says for
luit he most interfere, else

VOL IT. 28

French influence would be too power-
ful in the province or district Franoe
returns the compliment, and declares
that England — that is, the English
consul — is such a deep diplomat that,
unless she uses her influence, England
would be paramount in the place.
Russia, on the other hand, declares
that she must maintain her prestige^
else the Turks would say of their old
enemy that she had fallen in the scale
of nations. This interference in the
administration 'of the Ottoman empire
is thus described by Mr. Urquhart :

'* In other countries it has heen known u
diplomatic representations made in regard to
princ^les ; here (that is, in Turkey) it is ad-
ministrative. It bears upon the taxes, the
customs, the limitation of districts, the ad-
ministrative functions, the parish business, the
selection and displacement of functionaries,
the operations of the courts of law — what-
ever is included under the word * govern-
ment* belongs here to interference.* This
operation is exercised with authority, without
control, without responsibility. The discus-
sions in reference thereto are carried on be-
tween the functionaries of a foreign goyem-
ment; and as that foreign government can
enter upon the field only by an act of usurpa-
tion, its position is that of an enemy. Every
act is directed to subvert and to disturb ; the
object of each individual is of necessity to
supersede the legitimate authority of the
native functionary with whom he is in con-
tact.

** Thus it is that the administrative interfer-
ence, which has in Syria replaced the diplo-
matic, is carried on through consuls.** (Vol ii.
pp. 349, 860.)

Hitherto this work of" interference"
has been carried on by our English
consuls in Syria in very much the
same way as it has by their Russian
and French colleagues, no better, but
no worse. At any rate, in all matters
of influencing religious affairs, direct-
ly or indirectly, they have held
perfectly aloof. But if we are to
judge fi-om a document lately
put forth by the Turkish Missions-
Aid Society, the title of which
stands at the end of the list of books
and pamphlets that heads this paper,
either an entire change has in this re-
spect come over our policy, or else
several of our Anglo-Syrian official
must be acting in direct disobedience

854

IVoiesiani ProttH^tUm in EaHem Zamdt*

of the wishes of the Foreign office.
We allude to an appeal for the build-
ing of ** A Syrian PROTESTJUiT Col-
lege/' together with a prospectus of
the same, and a list of the ^Local
Board of Managers*' among which,
to their shame be it said, appear the
names of Mr. Geo. J. Eldridge, her
majesty's consul-general in Syria ;
Mr. W. H. Wrench, * her majesty's
vice-consul at Beyrout ; Mr. Noel
Temple Moore, her majesty's consul
at Jerusalem ; and Mr. E. T. Rogers,
her majesty^s consul at Damascus.
That there can be no real desire or
want for such an institution in the
country, and that the very appeal for
help to found it is about the most out-
rageous piece of pious impudence that
has ever been published, even in the
name of sectarian so-called religion,
will appear upon a further examina-
tion of this document. We will do the
American missionaries the justice of
saying that no Englishman would, or
could, ever have had the toupe to ask
for money for such a purpose ; the
whole document bears the unmistaka-
ble impress of " smart" New-England.
As we have shown before, from the
" summary " of American Missions
Statement given elsewhere, copied from
the report of the Turkish Missions- Aid
Society, the number of Protestant
" church members" on the Syrian field
is two hundred ; this, too, after nearly
thirty years of missionary " labor" in
the country. And now these same
missionaries come forward and modest-
ly tell us that "more than £20,000
have already been secured and invest-
ed in the United States" for the build-
ing of this proposed " institution," and
that ^ it is proposed to raise an equal
amount in England, the income an-
nually going to the support of the Col-
lege." The president of the proposed
collejre, and ex-ojficio president of the
board of managers, is an American
missionary, the Reverend Dr. Bliss,
and among the members of the board
are the names of some thirteen or
fourteen other missionaries of all sorts.
The trustees, who "are to have the

general supervision of tb
reside in New-York, wh
imagine they will be al
proximity to the colleg
supervise the whole affa
ly welh With these,
persons as have parte
money for such a pious i
nothing to do. But as
English officials, it is ai
and Protestants, as well
must agree that men hoi
tions they do in a coun
lit^ious discord is the hi
of the land, have no bu
themselves up with ac
which is purely and who
the purpose of proselytis
subscription been to buih
chapel or church, or U
such establishment for t
English residents in Sj
have been a very diflf
To lend their names to
dertaking these gentlem<
a perfect right; but t
official sanction to a sch
but a renewed campaign
ligion of the country, an
government officers to e
— and consequently th(
they represent — appro v«
general and consuls of
sectarian converting she
less tlian a prostitution o
this country in Syria,
is a good one ; the Amei
arics, notwithstanding
pious talk in missionary
have actually done no
perverting the native (
Syria. Two hundred **
hers" in nearly thirty y<
rate of seven converts a
than the third of a c<
twelve months for each c
four missionaries. Thii
pay. Even American
** Christians'* will, after ;
to contribute for what b
little fmit. Something i
and therefore they hav
idea of this ** Syrian P
lege " having got the proi

Praieslttnt ProUlytism in Eastern Lands,

355

consular gentlemen to countenance it
as they have done.

Did these proselytizing consuls, be-
fore they allowed their names to be
made use of in this prospectus, read
the third paragraph of the document,
in which we are coolly told that " the

ENEMIES OF CHRISTIANITY, PROFESS-
ED Infidels as well as Papists,

PULLT alive to THE ADVANTAGES
TO BE GAINED FROM THE PRESENT
STATE OP THE COUNTRY, ARE ADOPT-
ING BOLD AND ENERGETIC MEASURES
TO FORESTALL PROTESTANTISM IN

BECOMING THE EDUCATORS OF THIS

VAST POPULATION " ?

Or, if they did read it, did it not
«lTike them that there was an inso-
Wnce, as well as an amount of sicken-
ingcantand implied falsehood, through-
oat these words which ought to have
prevented them, as English gentlemen,
to say nothing of their official charac-
ter!, {jrom countenancing such a con-
cern? Have English consuls in East-
€ni lands bo far lost whatever teaching
fej may have had as to forget that,
tokmg all her majesty's subjects
throughout the world, the " Papists "
are very nearly as numerous as the
^estants; and that to class them
^ "infidels,^ and call them »< the ene-
mies of Christianity," is an insult — to
«ay nothing of the loud vulgarity and
Ac utfer untruth of the assertion,
which there can be no excuse for any
EngOah gentleman, far less any Eng-
M oflWol, to lend his name to ? In
^ every person with the slightest
pretension to the name of gentleman
or an educated man, no matter what
°*y be his religious persuasion, must
gl^eoirithns. And to talk of »* Syrian
Protestantism," with its two hundred
"diupch members " amidst a popula-
tion of half a million native Christians,
■^ Aree times that number of Mos-
«nWi being "forestalled" in "becom-
^ tbe educators of this vast popula-
1^" is much as if the Mormons in
^*» were to complain that the
«^fith Qiurch was "forestalling *
*^ in being the educators of the
«^ of Englaod. The Latter-day

Saints of the metropolis bear a much
larger and not at all less respectable
proportion to the rest of the population
of London, than the Protestant " con-
verts " of Syria do to the rest of their
fellow-countrymen.

Three excuses may be put forth in
defence of these consular gentlemen
who have thus disgraced the country
they Serve. It may be asserted — 1st,
TJiat if French, Russian, and Austrian
consuls give official protection to Cath-
olic and Greek religious establish-
ments, it is quite lawful for English
authorities to do the same to Protes-
tant undertakings. 2dly, That " the
Syrian Protestant college *' is to be
got up for literature, the sciences, ju-
risprudence, and medicine, and not for
religious purposes. And, 3dly, That
they have allowed their names to be
made use of without reading over the
prospectus. Of these the third and last
excuse is the only one that will hold
-water for an instant; and for their
sakes we hope it may be true, poor
and lame as such a plea would be for
official men. As regards the first of
these pleas, which we have put into
tlie mouths of the defendants, it is
quite true that the French, Russian,
and Austrian consuls have and do
afford official protection to Cath-
olic and Greek religious establish-
ments, but the cases arc by no means
•parallel.

To quote again the words of Mr.
Urquhart : — ^*' The Roman Catholic
regular and secular clergy are estab-
lished here (in Syria) as in any other
Roman Catholic countries ;* that is to
say, they are pastors of flocks, and
not missionaries. The Protestants
have no flocks, and they are sent with
a view of creating them."

We wonder what this writer would
have said could he have seen a " Sy-
rian Protestant college " proposed as
a means toward this much-desired end,
or could he have foreseen that four

* The same may b« lald of the Oreek clergy, who
have many and very large coogregaUoot In the coun-
try— in tome parta mucli more numeroui than tht
Maronltei or other OathoUe churches.

J3<

fttnfdtt

Fg gMkrt »rxisala 'na'A «▼? hskr^ Vnt
tbeir mas/^s-^fjOaaZ-r. ur^— g> foch
a Qoaifioaifnn o^ liz^ BeciKi mod
* BXBLTt ~ AsKnraa ■azmxiw Xor vill
is Hift?e ao £^17 oai cJs ssdtu&xi is
DOC c»^g » oQ noc » CM express
psrpoK oc proKlrasii. bujr or less
£rw. la pAnznpa wxsiber eight
wear* toidshas —
"■ Tie xC«» ▼■Z be ccmrart^i on icwtlj

Wluu da< m«ini» we all know ;

"^ Is v>Z b« open f jr itadecti froo aaj of

Huu b to saj. uiT Hodent belwgr-
ing to the Latin,* Maronite. Greek
SchismadcaL Greek Catholic. Arme-
nian GuholJc. Armenian SchL«inatical,
or other Eastern church, wiU be ad-
mitted to this college, prorided he at-
tends ** Protestant" and *^ evangelical"
preachings and prajers, and is humble-
minded enough to hear the faith of his
fathers denounced everj day as one
of ** the enemies of Cbristianitj/' and
^ Papists " lovingly classed with *• pro-
fessed infidels.** And in the very next
sentence we are funher informed
that—

*' It is hoped that a strong Christian inflti-
eace will alwaji centre in and go forth from
this institution; and that it will be instru-
mental in raising up a \iody of men who will
fill the ranks of a well-trained and vigorous
' native ministry ;' become the authors of a
native Christian literature ; supply the edu-
cational wants of the land ; encourage its in-
dustrial interests ; develop its resources ; oc-
cupy stations of authority, and in a large de-
gree aid in carrying the Gospel and its attend-
ant blessings wherever the Arabic knguago
Xa spoken/*

With the help of one English con-
Bul-gcQcral, two English consuls, and

* ir. the EMt, Kuropean CatkollCT, and all others
whn xinr the Kurnpcnn or Romnn Ritual, are called
•' UtlnH :" while the other OrienUl churches In
Atiiiiniuulon with the See of Peter are dUtinguiihed
liy Ihrlr rt«»|H»cllve name*— Maronlt**, Greek Catho-
1I«>M. Arnirnlan ruthollct.Syrian Catholica. Chaldean*,
anil olhrm. The wh«»le are l*-nned " CjiU«»IIc»,*' and
lliir.« U nothlitR i»f which they are to proud as their
lull I , .Mini* with ll»»me and the crntre "f unity. Of
tho \ arliui* lohliiinatical and heretlcnl sects, there la
imi itiii« thai A««umes the name of " Catholic " except
I't'it-itii of th# " advanctd " achool In the Kngllah Ka-
Ul>U«h«i inmrch.

one Ecgfish Tice^^oosal, this maj in
a certain measure be done : jes, aud
wiU be done ; for consniar influence in
those lands is all powerfoL But vrith-
oat it. no : withoat this English state-
help the ^-Srrian Protestant college"
will wither, and onlj bear fmit in such
proportioD as ha^e dooe the ^ Protec-
tant churches** in Sjria, with their
twentj-fbnr missionaries, their thirty-
scTcn natiTe assistants, and their two
hundred communicants, after nesHr
thirtr jears labor in the Syrian ^ field."
After the extracts we hare given
from the prospectus, can there be aoj
doubt as to the proselytizing intentioDS
of this American- Syrian-Protestant-
evangelical institution ? or can there
be two opinions as to the propriety of
English gentlemen and English offi-
cials degrading themselves and their
office by becoming connected with saeh
an undertaking ? We observe, by the
way, as a curious coincidence in the
prospectus, that the name of the New-
York Treasurer to the board of tros-
tees of this proposed college is Williaffl
E. Dodge; and that the Rev. D.
Stuart IX>dge, of New York, has been
appointed one of the professors. Would
it not have been better and more ap-
propriate if her majesty's consols at
Bey rout, Damascus, and Jerusalem
had letl all this evangelical specuUitioa
to men of like name and calUng? It
is true that wlicn the prospectus was
drawn out, and these English officiab
allowed their name to be nmde use of,
Lord Palmerston was prime minister,
and Lord Russell ruled over the for-
eign office. That the Shafiesbuiy
power with the first, and the well-
known tendencies of the author of the
Durham letter, may have had some
influence with these individuals in their
official character is possible, nay, prob-
able ; but should gentlemen, English
gentlemen, ever have allowed their
names to go forth as patrons and di-
rectors of this unholy humbog? A
privttte individual may lend his m-
fluencc to whatever scheme he likes to
patronise ; but a public servant and
above all an Bi^liih pablie 1

JProtestani ProMeJytitm in Eattem Lands.

857

TEorkex — ^has no right whatever to be
so liberal with his patronage.

One word more ere we have done
with the " Syrian Protestant college."
At the head of the list of subscribers
to this proposed institution is £1,000
from "The late Syrian asylums' com-
mittee." If we are rightly informed,
that money was subscribed from the
residue of a fund which was instituted
in 1860 to afford assistance to the
Rufferers from the Syrian massacres.
To this fund Catholics, Protestants,
Greeks, and Jews subscribed, with the
express stipulation and understanding
that no part or portion of it was to be
OBed for any religious purpose what-
ever. The fact was, that the chief
nianagers of the fund in Syria were
American missionaries, and subscribers
to it were afraid that the money would
be used for proselytizing purposes.
Af^er a time tiie great misery of the
Sjrian Christians came to an end, and
no fiirther relief was required: but
tliere still remained an unused bal-
uoe of about £1,200 of this fund in the
liter's hands. If what is reported in
I^doQ be correct — and we have very
pod reason for believing it to be so —
who was it that gave authority for this
£1,000 to be given as a donation to
the Syrian Protestant college? To
qncstion regards not only the Cath-
Kc«) Greeks, and Jews of London,
^^*n<Aester, Liverpool, and other
towns in England that subscribed to
this fond, bat also those belonging to a
^8®*-Mid we are thankful to say a
▼wy hiige— class of our Protestant
fellow-countrymen, who, however
nnch they may differ from us in mat-
^ of faith, are enemies to religion
^^ made a cloak for fraud, and are
oooeitand honorable in their dealings
'^^'ecn man and man. If this £1,000
vUch heads the list of subscriptions
^ ttc Syrian Protestant college was
JjDy given from the money which in
J^JMl was gatheied together as
fto Syrian relief fund,'* a gross
^Qiost infamous breach of trust has
jj^ommitted, and all men should
^'^Hie how thej in fiitnre contribute

to anything in which the American
Oriental missionaries have any in-
fl(ience.

But where have the projectors of
this college learned geography ? They
tell us that the establishment will bie
** LOCATED IN Betrout, the seaport
of Syria, a city rapidly growing in
size and importance, and occuptino

A CENTRAL POSmON' IN RESPECT TO
ALL THE ArABIC-SPEAKINO RACES."

The capitals are our own, for we
would note these words as bringing
a new light in geographical discovery.
That Beyrout is by far the most pleas-
ant, nay the only pleasant, town in Sy-
ria to residfe in — that there is more so-
ciety, and particularly what the promo-
ters of this undertaking would call more
" Christian** society, we fully admit.
That, on account of its proximity to the
sea, it is far more healthy than most
towns in Syria, and that from the num-
ber of its European and native Chris-
tian inhabitants it is far safer to reside'
in, and much more exempt from the
chance of any Moslem outbreak taking
place, cannot be denied. But tliat it
occupies ^' a central position in respect
to all the Arabic-speaking races,'* is
simply, and very grossly untrue, as a
glance at any school-boy's atlas would
show. It would be about as correct to
assert that Plymouth or Falmouth held
" a central position in respect to" the
rest of England. If the promoters of
•* The Syrian Protestant college" are
BO very anxious to diffuse the great
blessings of their faith and literature
"wherever the Arabic language is
spoken," would not Damascus, Mosul,
Aleppo, Antioch, or even Bagdad, be
more central than Beyrout? To re-
side in any of these places would not
be so pleasant, but it would be more
missionary-like, and would certainly
save the money of the subscribers,
Beyrout being by far the most expen-
sive town in all Syria to live in.

But men of American sectarian
preacher stamp never knew and never
will know what a missionary spirit is.
It is foreign to their habits as well
as to their creed. When we heartif

«58

IVaUstani Proidytigm in JSa$iem Lamds.

American Protestant missionaries go-
ing forth with barely a change of
clothes; when we learn that they
abandon father, mother, family, bou^e
and home to preach the Gospel ; when
we read of half a score of them under-
going martyrdom, as did two Catholic
bishops and eight priests in Gorea, an
account of which was published in the
Times of the 27th August last — when,
in fine, we hear of their taking lessons
in their work from the Jesuits, the
Lazarists, the Capuchins, the Domini-
cans, or any other of those religious
orders which have shed such lustre
upon the church in all ages — it may
then become a matter of discussion
whether, notwithstanding their gross
errors in faith, they have not some-
thing of the missionary spirit among
them. At present we can only look
upon them as do all the Moslems, the
native Christians, the Jews, and nine-
teen* twentieths of the European popu-
lation in the East, namely, that tliey
drive a very flourishing trade, and en-
joy very comfortable incomes : but that
the work they are paid for doing has
neitlier the self-denial of man nor the
blessing of God to make it prosper.
Protestant missions throughout the
world have ever been, are, and ever
will be, most miserable failures. Dr.
Littledfde was, at any rate, candid
when he spoke of ^' the pitiful history
of Anglican missions to the heathen ;"
but he might with equal truth make
mention of the wretched results of
Protestant missions throughout the
world. That unison of mawkish sen-
timent and Biblical phrases selected
at random, which commonly goes by
the name of " cant," may certainly in-
fluence weak-minded persons to sub-
scribe to visionary schemes of a
Protestant conversion of Oriental
Christians. But exposure must come
sooner or later, and with it the begin-
ning of tlie end of subscriptions.
Some years ago the American mis-
sionaries gave up the " field" they oc-
cupied at Jerusalem; would it not
be as well if they conferred a similar
boon on the Syrian and Lebanon dis-

tricts? The churches against which
they are chiefly engaged in preaching
have their own bishops, their own
<^lei^« and their own missionary
preachers from Europe. These latter
are not engaged in perverting men
from another quarter, bat — at the re-
quest, and with the full concurrence
of the native bishops and dergy — they
build up and repair the breaches in
the sheep-fold, and help in driving
away the wolves that would enter.
There may be — there are — sheep that
go astray from time to time, but con-
sidering all things — and particubrly
now that the sectarian influence of
English consuls in Syria has been
brought to bear on the ^ woii^" — these
are few indeed. The Maronites and
other sects in communion with St
Peter's successor, form part and pa^
eel of God's one only true and holj
Catholic Church, against which, we
have His word, the gates of hell shall
never prevail.*

In his work upon ^ Mount Leba-
non," from which we have abeadj
quoted, Mr. Urquhart relates a cod-
versation which he had with a ce^
tain Maronite bishop, which scenu so
apropos that we give it entire : —

*^I wish you to knoir [said the bishop]
that we are not attached to FraDcc. Irance
is to us on oppression from which wc would.
be most happy to escape; we have prored.
this by acts, but no account is taken of tbtm.
How France came to be considered oar pro-
tector is an old story, into which it id need-
less to enter. The connection awakened
against us the hatred of the Turks and of tlHr
Greeks, and to it may be attributed the ptfC-
suffering of our people from both. Here tniS-
in the other parts of Syria, in Egypt and ii»
Cyprus, from the middle of the last ccDtary'
to the close of the campaign of NapoleoD, w«?
reckon that* the blood of 40,000 Maronite^
has been shed by the Turks or the Greck»-'
This is the debt we owe to French protectioD—
When, in 1840, the French goTemment sen.*
to us to require us to support Ibrahim Pisb**-
and Emir Beshir, we gave a flat rcfasal-

* The fiu^t of foar English cootnis allowhi{ tbA^
names to go forth as patrons of a Protestant Oeikt^ •
which Is to be got up for the perrersion of vuir ^
Christians, is so utterly at Tarlanoe with the f^^^^
practice of our gotemment, that we must expii*'^
our surprise it has been OTerlooked at tbt rorsic^*
Office. We cannot imagine Lord Stanley l^BdiBj^
eren a tacit sanction to such an mrtragt oft Ikt ImV
Inff of tiM aatiTO Bjrian Chrlallaaa.

DMl

859

IL came to S&ida, and sent a message

to the Patriarch (of the house of Habesh),
who sent his own secretary to give him the
ansirer, which had been decided on by the
bishops and chiefs, which was, * The Maron*
ites have heard much of, but have never seen,
the fruit of the protection of France, and
conld not, in the hope of it, expose them-
■elres to the risks they were now required to
nm.* Then the English government sent to
us an agent (Mr. Wood), accompanied by M.
Stendel, on the part of the Austrian govern-
Bent, proposing to us to accept the protec-
tion of Austria in lieu of that of France. We
declined to make any application for such
protection ; and tee contained to Mr. Wood
of th€ inter/erenee in our religion of the
Pn}t€Uant mittionarieSj which made ua look
«i(& wtpieion on the intentions toward us of
tht Engli/ih government. He assured us that
A< English government was opposed to all
Mtttiofuiry schemes^ and suggested that we
^Md draw up a petition to the Turkish
ffotcnment, requesting the missionaries to
N jmhUnted from entering t^ie country^
prminng that the English ambassador
«oiiU o62atn frm the Porte an order to that
4*^' Satisfed with these assurances^ we aid-
^ii^ihi expulsion of Mehemet Aliy although
Ai W etery wag favored the Maronites.

" The promised order respecting the mission-
aries never came, England set up a Protes-
tant bishop (in Jerusalem)^ and obtained from
tlie Porte the formal reeognitioti of tlie Protes-
tants as a bodgy (Vol. il pp. 261. 262.)

The italics in this quotation ore our
own. They show pretty plainly
whether or not the missionaries are
welcome to the natives of Syria. But
what will these same natives say now,
when they see our consuls-general
and consuls coming forth as the official
patrons and promoters of Protestant
missionary prosely tism ? If it be true
— and we have certainly always look*
ed upon it as one of the rules of our
government — that the English gov-
ernment ^ is opposed to all missionary
schemes,^' how is it that the consul-
general in Syria, the consul at Jerusa-
lem, and the consul at Damascus, are
allowed to take upon themselves the
office of " managers'' or "local direc-
tors" of the Protestant Syrian college?

DELIA.

Thbbb is a darkness wliich is still not gloom,

And thou, poor child, whose young but sightless eyes

Catch no glad radiance from the summer skies —

Worse, still, neglected in thy blindness, whom

Those nurtured like thee in the self- same womb

Have cast on strangers, strangers truly wise.

Since more than waif of gold such charge they prize-—

Hast found a joy what others find a doom.

Thou knowest the way unto the chapel door,

Andy kneeling soAly on its blessed floor.

Thou art no longer blind ; the Presence there

Reveals itself to thy adoring prayer ;

Hours fly with thee that altar's Guest before,

TiU, cowards, we envy what wo would not share.

860

MADEMOISELLE DE MONTPENSIER.

How shall we tell in a few words
the story of one whose career extend-
ed over sixty-six years? Oar hero-
ine's name calls up a picture of the
> most brilliant period in French his-
tory. A thousand images arise of
pageantry, of genuine magnificence,
of jewelled and gilded wretchedness.
Life seemed like a great magic lan-
tern exhibited for her private amuse-
ment; scene afler scene passed be-
fore her eyes with a pomp unknown
in these days of tinsel splendor; but
most welcome of all, ever returning,
never palling, was the slide that pre-
sented to her view La Grande Made-
moiselle, the contemplated bride of
half the sovereigns in Europe.

Anne Marie Louise d'Orl^ns was
bom in the palace of the Louvre,
May 29th, 1627. Fairies met her on
the threshold of the world and endowed
her with all earthly goods — ^boundless
wealth, a cheerful temper, keen wit,
excellent health, and a fair share of
beauty. Was it a kindly or a spiteful
fairy who crowned these gifts with a
vanity that nothing could undermine
or overthrow 1 This self-love afforded
the only unfailing enjoyment of her
long life; but as it made her throw
aside as unworthy of her every
scheme of happiness suited to her
rank, and carve out a destiny for her-
self in defiance of all authority, the
fairies must decide the question, not
we.

" The misfortunes of my house," she
says, ^* began soon after my birth, for
it was followed by the death of my
mother, which greatly diminished the
good fortune that the rank I hold
would have led me to expect. The
great wealth which my mother lefl,
and of which I am sole heiress, might

well, in the opinion of un
have consoled me for losing
to roe, who feel now of what
her superintendence of m}
would have been to me, and
in my establishment, added
demess, it seems impossible
to regret her death.'*

This passage from her ^ !
exhibits several of Mad
peculiarities: a certain bh
mode of expressing her ei
ing, an egotism that makes
gain a test of the importance
and a right-minded hon<
saved her from the worst er
time.

No unmarried daughter
had ever enjoyed so mag
establishment as was noifi
to the heiress of the house
pensier. The Tuileries,
lodged, being connected by
with the Louvre, the little
child was under the supe
Louis XIIL and Anne o
as well as of Marie de M*
expended more tenderness
grand-daugh^er than she hi
her own children. Maden
garded her royal grandm
great partiality. She us
when the Duchess of <
quoted : ^< She is only a disi
mother, she is not queen."

Marie de Medicis left
disgrace in 1633, followec
sieur, whose career was a
petty intrigues, from which
ably emerged unscathed, 1
accomplices to bear the oo
of their folly. Very diffen
spirit of his daughter. A
old she was taken to see tl
tion of Due d'Elbdeuf and

MademaueUe de Mimtpermer.

861

la VienYille from the order. On be-
ing told that their disgrace was owing
to devotion to her father, she wept
bitterly, and wished to retire, saying
that she could not with propriety wit-
ness the ceremony. Ten years later
Monsieur supped with her, enlivened
by the music of the twenty-four royal
violins. She writes : " He was as gay
IS if MM. de Cinq Mars and de Thou
had not been lefb behind on the road.
I confess I could not look at him with-
out thinking of them, and amid my
own joy the sight of his contentment
pained me." Is not a certain rever-
ence due to this generous daughter of
a mean-spirited intriguer, and to one
vbo, with untrammelled liberty, re-
mamed virtuous in the court of Louis
XIV.? That her unspotted charac-
ter was not the result of coldness, is
proved by her foolish devotion to Lau-
20D. If pride was her safeguard, at
least some human praise should be
given to so high an estimate of royal
greatness.

The lung and queen were untiring
in tender attentions to Mademoiselle.
She writes : ** I was so accustomed to
their caresses, that I called the king
petU papa^ and the queen petit mama,
raiDj believing her to be so, because
I had never seen my own mother."
AAer enumerating the various little
pris of quality who came to play with
her, she adds : " I was never so occu-
pied with any game as to be inattentive
if tt reconciliation with Monsieur was
mentioned. Cardinal Richelieu, who
^ prime minister and master of af-
&in, was determined to control this
P>to; and with proposals so degrad-
ing to Monsieur that I could not listen
^ them without despair. He said that
to make Monsieur's peace with the
^, his engagement to Princess
^^iigaerite de Ix>rraine must be brok-
% w he might marry Mademoiselle
^ Gooibalet, Uie cardinars niece, now
^C^une d'Aiguillon. I could not
^ crying when it was mentioned
to me, and in my anger sang, in re-
^^oge, all the songs I knew against
k ewdinal and hia niece. It even

redoubled my friendship for Princess
Marguerite, and made me talk of her
incessantly."

Gaston d'Orleans returned to
Prance October 8th, 1634, and his
daughter went to Limours to receive
him. Wishing to test her filial mem-
ory, for he had left her at the age of
four or five years, he appeared before
her without the cordon bleu which dis-
tinguished him from the members of
his suite. " Wliich of these gentle-
men is Monsieur?" she was asked,
and without hesitation sprung to her
father's arms ; a proof of fidelity which
touched him deeply, that being of all
qualities the one most likely to excite
his surprise. Nothing was spared for
her amusement, even to the gratifica-
tion of her desire to dance in a haUet.
A band of little girls of high rank was
composed, with a selection of lords of
corresponding stature. The magnifi-
cent dresses and appointments satis-
fied even Mademoiselle's ambition. In
one figure birds were introduced in
cages, and set free in the dancing room.
One unlucky songster became entan-
gled in the dress trimmings of Made-
moiselle de Breze, Cardinal Richelieu's
niece, who began to cry and scream so
vehemently as to introduce a new ele-
ment of amusement among the assem-
bly. The accident recalls a similar
one which occurred at the time of this
lady's marriage with the Due d'En-
ghien, afterward the great Conde.
There was a ball afterward, where
Mademoiselle de Breze, who was very
small, fell down while dancing a cou-
rante, because,in order to make her look
tall, they had put such high-heeled
shoes upon her feet that she could not
walk. Clearly her sphere of success
was not destined to be the ball-room.
Poor little soul ! she played doll for
more than two years after her mar-
riage, and was sent to a Carmelite con*
vent to learn to read and write during
her husband's absence in Roussillon
with the king.

Mademoiselle gives a graphic ac-
count of a journey which she took in
1637. The events recalled, with the

862

Mademaitette de Mmtpeniim'*

amotions thej excited in her at the
time, show an acuteness of perception
far beyond that of most children of
tep years old. Her sentiments are too
» virtuous not to demand a brief notice.
** Arrived at Champigny, I went first
to the Holy Chapel, as a place to which
the memory of my predecessors, who
had built and founded it, seemed to
summon me, that I might pray to Grod
for the repose of their souls." A little
later we hear of her at the Convent
of FontevraulL The abbess was a
natural daughter of Henri IV., and
the nuns lavished every attention upon
their guest, delighting to honor her
with the title of ** Madame*s niece."
Their devotion bored our princess
greatly, and would have made her ill
but for a grain of amusement to be
derived from the simplicity of the poor
ladies. But fortune, Mademoiselle's
unfailing friend, soon relieved her from
this monotony. Two ladiesin-waiting,
Beaumont and Saint-Louis, instead of
going into the church, explored the
convent court-yards. Terrible cries
attracted their notice, and were found
to proceed from a poor maniac, con-
fined in a dungeon, according to the ill-
judged pitictice of those days. After
amusing themselves with her extrav-
agances, they went to find their little
mistress, that she might share the en-
joyment. " I broke off a conversation
with the abbess and betook myself in
all haste to the dungeon, which I did
not leave until supper-time. The table
was wretched, and for fear of suffering
the same treatment the next day, I
begged my aunt to let my oflScers pre-
pare my meals elsewhere. She made
use of them aflcr that day, so that we
fared better during the rest of our visit.
Madame de Fontevrault treated me
the next day to a second maniac. As
there was not a third, ennui seized
upon me, and I went away in spite of
my aunt's entreaties." And this was
the child who, at five years old.
wept over the degradation of two
of her father's followers. Through
life, her best impulses seem to have
had root rather in a sense of her

own dignity than iu oom{
others.

More easily understood :
joyment of the royal hun
the days of Louis XUL's i
to the virtuous Madame de
" We were all dressed in cole
ed upon hackneys richly ca
and each lady protected iron
rays by a hat covered wit
The chase led past several
houses, where grand collat
prepared for us, and on our
king sat in my coach betweer
de Hautefort and me. When
humor, he entertained us v
autly with many topics. At
he allowed us to speak free)
dinal Richelieu, and provec
not displeased by joining in
versation."

His eminence was destin
more deejfly than ever intc
with Mademoiselle in 16
dauphin was born at the cl
Saint-Germain-en- Lay c, Sepi
of that year ; and his cousin,
any other little girl, enjoyec
the royal nursery, used to
" her little husband." This a
king axceedingly, but Cardie
lieu viewed the matter more
Mademoiselle was sent home
On the way, she was taken t
see the minister, and there i
grave reprimand for the ic
of her language. ** He said
old to use such terms ; that
becoming in me to speak t
said so seriously to me tl
might have been addressed to
able person, that, without an
word, I began to cry ; to co]
he gave me a cdlation.
less did I go away very an
words."

If this rebuke had made
impression upon Louise
bon, her biographer's task
a more grateful one. Th<
with which she reveals all 1
monial castles in the air wo
comprehensible if these 8ch<
not been purely ambitiouB

Mademoitelle de MontpentUr.

868

from sentiment as a militarj stratagem
or a commercial speculation.

At fifteen Mademoiselle met with a
great loss in the death of her excellent
jK>Kiremanto, the Marchioness of Saint-
Georges. She speaks of this trial
with more tenderness and less egotism
than one might have anticipated. " I
learned, on awaking in the morning,
how ill she was, and rose in haste that
Imight go to her and show by various at-
tentions my gratitude for her noble per-
formance of her duties toward me ever
since I came into the world. I arrived
while they were applying every pos-
sible remedy to revive her, in which
they succeeded after repeated efforts.
The viaticum and extreme unction
were brought, and she received them
with every evidence of a truly Chris-
tian Boul. She responded with admir-
^ devotion to each prayer : no sub^
jectof surprise to those who knew
bow piously she had lived. This over,
sbe called her children to her, that she
Bugbt bless them, and asked permis-
*wo to give me, idso, her benediction,
••ywg that the honor she had enjoyed
of bemg with me from my birth made
btt venture to take the liberty. I felt
• tenderness for her corresponding to
an that she had shown toward me in
tbe care of my education. I knelt
'^•Me her bed, with eyes bathed in
*^i I received her sad farewell and
™*d her. I was so touched by the
t^'^'^gbt of losing her, and by tha. in-
^^ namber of good things she had
•aid to me, that I did not wish to leave
tbe room until her death. She begged
Aat I might be taken away, and her
*bildren too ; she was too much agi-
'■'^d by our cries and tears, and testi-
Mdtm I alone was the subject of any
J^*^ the was capable of feeling. I
"■d hardly returned to my own room
^^ben the agony began, and she died
"> fifteen minBte3.V

^emoiselle retired to the Car-
^lite oonyent of Saint Denis, until
*^ieur should select another gov-
''P^ She requested that the place
2J^^ be gvcn either to Mademoi-
"^ de Ficiqae or Mademoiselle de

Tilliferes (both *' persons of quality,
merit, and virtue, and relations of her
own'*), hoping earnestly thiit the choice
might fall upon Mademoiselle de Til-
lieres. Her wishes were thwarted, and '
the Countess de Fiesquc entered upon
the task with Spartan firmness. An
illness of six months' duration vanished
miraculously when the news of her
appointment was announced, we are
told with sarcastic emphasis.

Whether governess or pupil suffer-
ed most in this connection, it would be
hard to say. Mademoiselle de Fiesque
had an aggravating system of petty
supervision, and Mademoiselle a fixed
determination to elude it. On one
occasion when our princess had been
shut up in her room by the tyrant's or-
ders, slie managed to escape, stole the
key of Mademoiselle de Fiesque's
private apartment, and locked her in.
" She was hours in uneasiness before
a locksmith could be found ; and her
discomfort^was all the greater because
I had shut up her grandson in another
room, and he screamed as if I had mal-
treated him."

But we should soon tire of these re-
miniscences, did they not bring upon
the stage personages more important
than Mademoiselle herself — hard as it
would have been for her to think so.

In 1643 we find the dramatis per-
sona: much changed and extended.
Louis XIII. has passed away, making
so good an end, that we wonder at the
grace of God to see how noble a death
may close an insignificant career. RichO'
lieu has been succeeded in Mademoi-
selle's ill graces by Cardinal Maza-
rin. Louis XI v.- is a precocious, igno-
rant child of nine years old. The cabal
of the Irnportantes has arisen and de-
clined, and two seditions in Paris,
founded upon slight provocation, have
proved the populace ripe for the Fronde
Henrietta Maria and her children are
refugees at the French court, and
Mademoiselle, with her enormous pos-
sessions, is considered an eligible match
for the Prince of Wales. As Charles
Stuart in the character of an unsuc-
cessful suitor is a noyel topiCi no

S64

ManipenBter,

apology 13 needed for introducing at
some longth the history of his court-
ship.

The court was at Fontnincbleau
when his roya.1 highness arrived in
France i and their majesties went to
meet him in the foresL His mother
presented him first to the king and
then to the qncen, who kissed him,
after which he l>owt*d to the Princess
of Conde, and to his cousin. " He
was only sixteen or eeventeen years
old ; quite tall for his np^e, wilh a fine
head* black l»f»ir, brown complexion,
and quite a good figure.** One un-
pardonable sin he had in Mademoi-
selle's eyes ; that, not ppeaking Fi-ench
in the least, he could not shioc in so-
ciety. Clever talk she enjoyed keenly
Even in childhood, Monsieur** bril-
liant conversation had fascinateil her.
The Prince of Wales worked dili-
gently to produce an impression upon
his cousin's flinty he^rt, which (shall
we confess it?) was wastinp^ itself
away in an unrequited attachment for
the imperial thi*one, IMany a suitable
match did Mademoiselle reject, because
the untimely death of two cmpresacs
kept her in a fever of hope and expec-
tation. Li vain was it represented
tliat the empcrar was old enough to be
her father; that she would be happier
in England or Savoy. She replied
disinterestedly that **she wished the
emperor, - . that he was not a young
and gallant man ; which proved that
in good truth she thought more of the
eitablishment than of the person**' In
vain did Charles Stuart follow her
about biireheaded» ministering mutely
to her love of importance* In vain
did lie liold the ilambeau this side
and that, while the Queen of England
dressed her for Mademoiselle de
Choisy*8 ball. Hia p$Hi€ ori\ as they
called the dainty appointments of a
gentleman's dress in those days* were
red» black, and white, because Made-
moiselle's plume xmd the ribbons fasten-
ing her jewels were red, black, and
white. He made himself torchbearer
again while she arranged her dress
before eutering the ball-room ; follow-

ed her every step, nni Hi
her hotel until the doQT el
her : all in vain, because i
our heroine had the discna
fera middle-aged emperor,
ed on his throne, to tm exil^
seventeen.

His gallantry was so 0[
ed as to excite much reina
ed all winter, appearing in
a eelebrat«:?d enleriainraent
Palais Royal toward the
season. Anne of Austria
rayed her niece upon ihj9
three whole days were devi
paring her costume. The
covered with diamond^, and
and white tutls ; and shsures us ; "^ and
not wanting those who ii&!
my fine presence, fair complj
dazzling blonde hair ■ ' - - ^
than all the jewels 1 1
person.*' Mademoiseuc u<»<
aggerate her cbanns,
strictly handsome, her noU
and charming coloring
the efi^eet of beauty.

The dancing took pi
theatre, illuminated with
and at one end stood a th
dau!, which was the scene
moiselle*3 triumphs. **Th'
the Prince of Wales did
occupy tiie throne ; I remi
alone ; and saw at my feet
princes and all the princes!
court circle* I was not in tl
at ease in this position^ and
had flattered me on entcrinj
room found matter th© ne:
fresli adulation. Every one i
never appeai-ed less cousird
when sealed on tha^ throne y.
imperial hopes l>eing at tb
she adds : •* While 1 stood
the prince at my feet, nay bi
as my eyes regarded Uim
has . . The thought of
occupied my mind 60 e

Mademoiseile de Montpentier.

865

d upon the Prince of Wales
an object of pity."
inclusion of this romance be-
»lly to the interval between

and second Fronde, but we

here for the sake of conven-
eadin|2[ guilty of the anachro-
[n 1649 we find Mademoiselle
^rsecuted to marry her cousin,
larles II. "^L'Abb^ de la

said that I was right, but
lost be remembered that there
»ther match for me in Europe ;

emperor and King of Spam
uried ; the King of Hungary
othed to the Infanta of Spain ;
iduke would never be sover-

the Low Countries; that I
lot heai* of any Grerman or
K>vereigh ; that In France the
1 Monsieur (d'Anjou) were too
to marry; and that M. la
[Cond^) had been married ten
and his wife was in good

irier was sent to their majesties
(onoe the King of England's
Bt P^ronne, and the count went

to meet him at Compiegne.
Diselle had her hair curled for
ision, and was bantered by the
gently upon the pains she had
9 please her suitor. "Those
ive bad admirers themselves
uid such things/' replied her
ighness tartly, referring to the
jf her majesty's youth.
royal personages met within a
of Compiegne and alighted
le carriages. Charles saluted
^ties, and then Mademoiselle.
Bght him much improved in
noe since he lef^ France. If
had seemed to correspond to
ion, he might perhaps have
me ; but when the king ques-
inn in the carriage concerning
i and horses of the Prince of
) and the hunting in that coun-
replied in French. The queen
» him of his own affairs, and he
reply ; and being questioned

times about grave matters
jieatly concerned himself, he

declined answering <yx the plea of not
being able to speak our language.

" I confess that from that moment
I resolved not to consent to this mar-
riage, having conceived a very poor
opinion of a king who at his age
could be so ignorant of his affairs.
Not that I could not recognize my
own blood by the sign, for the Bour-
bons are beings greatly devoted to
trifles and not much to solid matters ;
perhaps myself as well as the rest,
being Bourbon on both sides of the
house. Soon after we arrived, dinner
was served. He eat no ortolans, and
threw himself upon a huge piece of
beef and a shoulder of mutton, as if
there had been nothing else on the
table. His taste did not seem to me
very delicate, and I felt ashamed that
he should show so much less in this,
than he had displayed in thinking of
me. After dinner the queen aroused
herself and left mo with him : he sat
there a quarter of an hour without ut-
tering a syllable : I should like to be-
lieve that his silence proceeded from
respect rather than from absence of
passion. I confess frankly that in
this interview I wished he would show
less (respect). Fe^jling rather, bored,
I called M. de Comminges to be third
party and make him speak ; in which
he fortunately succeeded. M. de la
Riviere said to me : ^ He looked at
you all dinner time, and is still look-
ing at you incessantly.' I answered,
^ He will look a long time without at-
tracting me if he does not speak.'
He replied, ' Ah ! you are concealing
tlie charming things he has saict to
you.' ' Not at all,' said 1. * Come
near me when he is devoting himself,
and you will see how he sets about
it.' The queen arose; I approached
him, and, to make him speak, I asked
after several persons of his suite
whom I had seen; all which he an-
swered, but point de douceurs. The
time came for him to go ; we all went
in a carriage to escort him to the mid-
dle of the forest, where we alighted,
as we had done on his arrival He
took leave of the king and came to me

866

Mademoisdie de monitpenrier.

with Gennin (Lord Jermyn), saying:
* I believe that M. Grermin, who
speaks better than I do, has explained
to you my wishes and intentions; I
am your very obedient servant.' I
replied that I was his very obedient
servant, Germin made me a great
many compliments, and then the king
bowed and left me."

After the battle of Worcester,
Giarles 11. reappeared in Paris and
made a third trial for his cousin's
hand. " I thought him very well
made and decidedly more pleasing
than before his departure, though his
hair was short and his beard long, two
things that change people very much.
He spoke French very well." All
went smoothly for some time : ^lade-
moisellc received from her royal suitor
all the douceurs for which she had
formerly listened in vain; and fre-
quent assemblies at her rooms made
them very intimate. But her will
was too vacillating to allow of her
coming to any definite decision, and
Charles was at length wearied into
giving marked evidence of Jiis dis-
pleasure. " The first time I saw the
queen after my inten-iew with Germin,
she showered reproaches upon me.
When her son entered (he had al-
ways been accustomed to take a seat
in my presence), they brought forward
a great chair in which he seated him-
self. I suppose he thought to make
me very angry, but I did not care in
the least." Indeed, it would have
bijen an ingenious tormentor who had
found a vulnenible spot in Mademoi-
selles vanity.

As Queen of England, Louise de
Bourbon would have found room for
the legitimate exercise of her best
faculties. As an unmarried princess
of immense wealth, she became the
tool of men who did not scruple to use
her coumge, magnanimity, and energy
for their own ends, and requite her
generosity with neglect. Let us fol-
low her adventures in the days of the
second Fronde, and see to what
exertions a love of bustle and no-
toriety could urge a princess ac-

customed to seek her owi
^things.

The first Fronde took pi
and was directed by th<
archbishop of Paris, Mon!
Retz, who acted under tli
of two motives: a desire
Mazarin, and rule Frum
and an enthusiasm for c<
liberty. Our space being
will not pause to reconcil
aspirations. The court 1<
night for St. Germain. lA
accompanied the queen,
herself useftil as a medh
munication with the popula
who loved h(T for being
their city. She describe
destitution with graphic fi
is exceedingly merry ovei
in which the besiegers
want of the luxuries they
hind them in the beleague:

In the second Fronde,^
out about two years la
1C52), the position of affai:
M. do Retz appears in th
of mediator, and Madem<
her lot with the rebels. '
of the house of Condo s<
portunity to avenge insult
them by Mazarin, and G
leans joins the Fmndeui
in order to avoid the troubl
Paris.

Skilful writers have left
voluminous of those trou
that they rise before us
series of living pictures t
torical recoixls. That mi
fercnoe in the oratory, bf
queenly Anne of Austria a
dark, misshapen coadjuto;
threatening Condc ; and
curled lip and reverentis
leaving the ministerial pr
the words, ** Farewell, li
quelled populace, streaminj
hour through the king's b
while his mother's beai
holds back the velvet hai
each one may look upon 1
boy and know that he l
from Paris — all is before

Mademaisdle de Mmtpetmer.

867

happened yesterday. The chief actors
with their' talenU and foibles are bet-
ter known to us than to their contempo-
raries ; and the French nation is to-
day as it was then— ready to be won
over by any clever bit of scenic effects
Mademoiselle and Condc, who had
hitherto been sworn foes, came to a
formal reconciliation in 1G51, and be-
ing bound together by their detes-
tation of Mazarin. welcomed the
outbreak of the second Fronde. Anne
of Austria declined the company of
her niece on leaving Paris, and she
was thus left to' the flattery of thq?e
wbQ well understood the right use of
her folly and her strength.

The golden moment of her career
tnrivcd. Orleans must be secured to
the Frondcurs, or Conde, coming from
Guyenne, would find the line of the
Loire cut and the enemy master of
ibe position. Monsieur was firm upon
two poihts : that he would not leave •
ftffiB himself, and that his private
troops should occupy the position best
fitted to protect him if the royal army
should aitack Paris. His daughter,
who had been longing for an oppor-
tmiity to distinguish herself, offered to
go to Orleans in place of the duke,
and on Monday, March 25th, 1G52,
Wl Paris amid the benedictions of the
people. A contemporary MS. jour-
Mltoys: "About noon Mademoi-
selle's carriages assembled in the court
of the Orleans palace, ready for the
CMipaign; she wore a gray habit
jo^tted with gold, to go to Orleans.
She left at three o'clock, accompanied
D7 the Duke de Rohan, Madame do
J'^nte, Countess de Fiesque, and
"*dame de Frontenac" Monsieur
leered at the project, and said her
ouvalry would not be worth much with
Jrt die common sense of Mesdamcs
^ Fiesque and Frontenac — her waro-
f*jfe» cfe camp^ as they were called
**^*een jest and earnest.

^fHto the plains of Beauce the
7<^Qg amazon appeared before the
*?^ on horseback, and was received
UJth enihusiaflm. « From that time,"
"•■•Jii**.Ibegaii to give my orders;"

and a little later at Toury, where she
was joyfully welcomed by a crowd of
ofHcers : *' they declared that a coun-
cil of war must be held in my pres-
ence That I must accustom

myself to listening to matters of
business and war; for henceforth
nothing would bo done except by my
orders."

Ari'ived before Orleans, IVIademoi-
selle found closed gates and small
disposition to grant admittance. The
unfortunate city government, press-
ed on one side by Frondeurs and
on the other by royalists, asked only
leave to remain neutral. The rebel
army had been left at some distance
from Orleans for fear of alarming its
inhabitants, and M, le (/ouverneur,
learning that the attacking party was
a lady, sent out a tribute of confec-
tionery, ** which seemed to me amus-
ing," remarks Mademoiselle.

At last, tired of waiting upon the
governors indecision, her royal high-
ness went out with her ladies for a
walk, much against the judgment of
her advisers — or ministers, as she
called them. Tlie rampart was edged
with people, who cried, on seeing her,
" Long live the king and princes, and
down with Mazarin !*' And she an-
swered, " Go to the Hotel du Ville and
make them open the gates ;" with
other exhortations of the same kind,
occasionally mingled with threats, " to
see if menaces would move them more
than friendship."

Now it 80 happened that before her
departure from l?aris, M. lo Marquis
do Vihiine, a noted astrologer, had
drawn the princess into Madame's pri-
vate room, and imparted to her the
following prophecy : "All that you
shall undertake between WeJnesday
noon, March 27th, and Friday will
succeed; and you shall even at that
time accomplish extraordinary things."
This prediction was in her pocket, and
anxiously as she disclaims all faith in
it, we may believe that it encouraged
her to make efforts which gave no
apparent promise of success. When,
toward evening, she stood outside the

S68

MademaUelk de Mbntpenner.

Porte Brulee, did not M. de Vilaine's
horoscope rise in her estimation?
The river was crossed and the bank
ascended by the aid of some ctiivab*ou8
boatmen, an improvised bridge of
boats, and a little more scrambHug
than would seem consistent with royoX
dignity. ^* I climbed like a cat, grasp-
ing at brambles and thorns, and
springing over hedges without hurting
myself in the least. * * Madame de
Breant6, who is the most cowardly
creature in the world, began to cry
out at me, and at every one who fol-
lowed my steps ; making great sport
for me." Outside the gate, a group of
bargemen worked under Mademoi-
selle's inspiriting direction ; inside
were citizens, urged on by the Count
de Gramont, to tear down the planks;
while the guards looked on in armed
neutrality. When the two middle
planks were torn off from the trans-
verse iron bars, Gramont signed to the
princess to come forward. " As there
was a gi'eat deal of rubbish, a footman
took me up and passed me through
the hole, where no sooner did my
head appear than they began to beat
the drums. I gave my hand to the
captain and said : ' You will be glad
to be able to boast that you let me in.'
Cries of * Long live the king and
princess, and down wilh Mazarin !' were
redoubled. Two men took me and
placed me in a wooden chair. I don't
know whether I sat in the chair or on
the arms, the rapture of my delight
set me so completely beside myself.
Every one kissed my hands, and I
was ready to die with laughter to find
myself in such a position." And so
the city was taken, and Mademoiselle
earned the title of IMaid of Orleans,
all in an afternoon*s frolic If she
thought to retain command of Paris
in a fiashion so amusing, the battle of
Porte Saint Antoine must have unde-
ceived her.

The heroine was received with rap-
tare on her return to Paris. She was
assured by Conde that the wish of his
heart was to see her queen of France,
and that no treaty should be concluded

without especial consideration
No one can be more uninteres
her royal highness when elatec
cess, we must confess ; but ai
trial was approaching that sh
velope, for the first and last tii
life, truly grand and heroic i
Until the 2d of July, 1652, ^
selle had given no signs of
feeling except byexhibiting tho
which are popularly supposed
pecially characteristic of worn
on that day, as she hurried thi
streets of Paris, carrying hope
one she met^— consohng poor
shot through the lungs, pa
speak a word of comfort to the
ed Rochefoucauld, and putl
heart into the great Conde
we recognize sympathies woi
better development than tl
received. During a pause in
tie M. Ic Prince came to her
able condition, covered with
blood, his hair tangled and hi
dented with blows. Giving h
sword to an equerry, he fiung
down upon a seat and burst ii
" Forgive my emotion," he ex
^' you see a desperate man be
I have lost all my friends ; I
La Rochefoucauld, and CUncl
mortally wounded."

Mademoiselle was able t<
him that these reports were ^
aggorated,and Conde, restorer
self, sprang upon a fresh Ih
galloped off to his post. Tl
was at its height. Paris had
multaneously attacked at th
Saint- Denis and the Faubour
Antoine. Inquiring the wbe
of Turenne, M. le Prince rush
faubourg, knowing that wt
marshal commanded there mu
be most in periL Soon c
tidings that the barricade of
had been forced. At the he
hundred musketeers he threw
upon the barricade, and drove
my back in its own dust. Nc
the conqueror been greater
that useless, terrible 2d of Jul

The next meeting betweec

Mademoiselle de Mo$Upensier.

869

nd Condd was foil of triumph,
tedy she to betake herself to
v of the Bastile, he to the
f Saint- An toine. Toward

in the valley the princess
dng*s troops gathering for a
ck. Having communicated
d^ through a page, she lefl
lie, giving stringent orders
ase of necessity, its cannon
tamed upon the royal army ;
ned to her post near the gate
rate the soldiers with wme
5 words,
was indeed need for encour-

Frondeurs were falling back
ictremity — ^royalists pressing
lopeful, and strengthened with
nents. The hours of the

seemed numbered — when
heights of the Bastile blazed
ish of light ; the cannon thun-
it in quick succession — the
ly paused, reeled, and retreat-
unazement. Mademoiselle
d the day, and ^ killed her
band," as Mazarin expressed
»forth she was to be more
• an object of distrust to the
d minister. But though this
mi a dignity to the last days
*onde, there was no principle
y in the party. Weak policy,
treachery on their side —

them, Mazarin, whose keen

1 told him that temporary
al from the ministry would
lUmited power in the future ;
ttne, with double the forces of
lothing was fairly matched
e courage of the two parties.
xmde came to an abrupt end,
' one was letl to make his own
ICademoiselle had shown dis-
iness, courage, and humanity
r a better cause. The fruits
I reaped were a notice to leave
ries, and the refusal on her

father's part to protect one
) king had condemned. There

have been about eight years
forced banishment from court,
8 spent on her numerous es-
using herself with writing ro-

VOL. IT. 24

mances, portraits (then in vogue) and
her M^moires, which she continued
until within a few years of her death.
M. Sainte-Beuve tells us that the style
of her imagination belongs rather to
the close of Louis XIIL's reign, and
to the Hdtcl Rambouillet, than to the
poorer literary period of Louis XIV.

And now, having given a faint delin-
eation of Mademoiselle during her pros-
perous and f)gted youth, and during
the days of the Fronde, which we are
inclined to regard as the period at
which she gave roost evidence of kin-
ship with her grandfather, the great
Henry; we pass on to a time when
fortune ceased to favor her, and the
world began to hustle her about, as
roughly as it does common mortals.
La Grande Mademoiselle, who had
hitherto looked upon human griefs and
passions as upon a brilliant theatrical
spectacle, was destined at last to leave
the royal box, and figure on the stage
herself for the diversion of her fellow
creatures. An amusing afterpiece this
exhibition seemed to her contempora-
ries ; but to us, who have not suffer-
ed from her airs of superiority, there
is a certain pathos in this genuine de-
votion lavished upon the wrong object
at an age when such blindness is sim-
ply absurd. That heart of adamant
which had looked above kings and
princes to covet the imperial crown,
fell prostrate in the dust before a col-
onel of dragoons, a member of the roy-
al household. Alas for pride of race !

Mademoiselle was forty-three years
old when the conviction seized her
that it would be well to marry, that
M. Lauzun was the most attractive
person in existence, and that for once
it would be pleasant to receive the
love of some one worth loving. That
M. Lauzun admired her seemed evir
dent, but how to give an opportunity
for expression to one whose sense of
reverential duty always kept him at a
distance?

One day they had an interview in
the embrasure of a window, the first
of many similar ones, in which she cmi*>
suited him about her proposed aUianoe

870

MademoUeUe de MonipmMier.

with Prince Charles of LoiTaine. The
tactics of our modest suitor are worthy
of all praise. <^ By his proud bearing
he seemed to me like the emperor of
the world," writes Mademoiselle, whose
circumstantial account must be pressed
into few words. " Why should she
marry," he reasoned, " since she had
already everything that could embel-
lish life? The position of queen or
empress was little more exalted than
her own, and would be encumbered with
burthensonle duties. True, in France
she could raise some one to her own
rank, and unite with him in untiring
devotion to tlie king, who must ever
be her first object in life. It was easy
to build a castle in the air, but how
to find a companion worthy to share
it with her, when no such being exist-
ed? A woman of forty- three had
three resources : a convent, a life of
strict retirement apart from court
and city, and finally marriage. Mar-
riage would insure liberty to enjoy the
world at any age, but it might be at
the cost of her happiness." Hints
only plunged him into reverential si-
lence. At hist the secret was revealed
by writing; then comes incredulity
met by protestations, and finally
amazed conviction. " What ! would
you marry your cousin's servant ? for
nothing in the world would make me
leave my post. I love the king too
well, I am too much attached to my
position by inclination, to leave it even
for the honor you would confer upon
me." And when she assured him
that his devotion to the king only en-
deared him the more to her (for loy-
alty anptuirs to luive been the main-
spring of their attachment), he answer-
ed-: •* I am not a prince ; a nobleman
I am assuredly, but that will not suf-
fice for you ;" and she replies, **I a;ii
content ; you are all that would be-
come the greatest lord in th(i kingdom,
and wealth and dignities are mine to
bestow upon you," etc., etc, etc

The stor}' is well known. Louis
XIV., after much hesitation, gave his
consent to the marriage. Made-
moigelle was to confer great wealth

upon Lauzan, together wit
ereignty of Dombes, the
Montpensier, and the oou
always with the agreemei
should not resign his post al
unite with her in exclusive <
the king.

The night Ixiforc the w<
Mademoiselle was sammoi
majesty's presence, with di
pass directly to his room tl
garde-rohe. '* This preca
not a good omen. IMadame
remained in the carriage,
was in the garde-robe Roc
tered and said, ^ Wait a m
saw that some one was intro
the king's room whom I w
tended to see. Then he sa
and the door was closed b
The king was alone, and 1
happy and agitiited. He t
in despair at what I have t
I am told that the world s:
sacrificed you in order to n
sieur de Lauzun's fortune,
injure me in the eyes of forei
and I ought not to allow tt
proceed. You have good
complain of me ; beat me i
for there is no degree of ai
not submit to, or do not
' Ah !' I exclaimed, ' who
mean, sire '? it is too cruel !
ever you do to me, I will
the respect due to you.
strongly impkinted in my !
has been too well nourishei
sieur de Lauzun, who w*
given me these feelings if
already been actuated by th
one can love him without
them,' I threw myself at hi:
ing : * Sire, it would be kin
me outright than to place
position. When I told yoi
of the afiair, if you had ba
get it I would have done so
how I shall appear in brca
now that I have gone so fisi
will become of me ? Whe
sieur de Lauzun?' ^Do i
easy ; nothing will liappei
'Ah! sire, I must fear <

MademoiidU de Man^^eruier,

371

for lum and for myself, now that our
Wiemies have preyailed over the kind-
ness joa felt toward him.'
**He threw himself on his knees
wbcn I knelt, and embraced me. We
Rmained thus three-quarters of an
iKHir, his cheek pressed to mine; he
wept as bitterly as I did : * Oh why did
joa give time for these reflections?
Whj did you not hasten matters ?*

* Abs ! sire, who would have doubted
your majesty's word? You never
&iled any one before, and you begin
DOW with me and Monsieur de Lauzun.
I shall die, and I shall be glad to die.
I never loved anything before in all
my life, and I love, and love passion-
ately, the best and noblest man in your
kingdom. Tlie joy and delight of my
life was in elevating him. I had
thought to pass the rest of my days so
happily witli him,. honoring and loving
you as much as I do him. You gave
him to me, and now you take him away,
and it is like tearing out my heart.
TIm shall not make me love you less,
bat it makes my grief the more cruel
that it comes to me from him whom I
feve best in the world."

ttidemoiselle's suffering in this
*€ne was heightened by the fact that
a sappressed cough outside the door
'^^ed to her the presence of an un-
^^ witness. She rightly suspected
»t to he the Prince de Condo, and re-
P^hcd the king with just indigna-
*wn for subjecting her to such a humili-
atioo.

^& majesty bore her reproaches
^^7 patiently, and dismissed her with
™* assurance that further discu.^ision
^o«ild not alter his decision. " lie
^'^^^wuced me and led me to tlie door,
^^^ I found I don't know whom.

* »ont home as quickly as possible,
^ there ye cricti des hauts crisy

I^asun, sure of his hold upon her
"^ highness, and fearing to lose
Pj^'nid with the king, yielded with ad-
■"'aWe resignation to the royal de-
^"^^ Hia favor at court seemed for
*J»hile greater than ever ; but sud-
*o!y, for reasons never made public,
^ was disgraced and sent to the Cas-

tle of Pignerol. Mademoiselle spent
the ten years of his imprisonment in
faithful efforts to procure his release,
and purchased it finally by an immense
donation to the Duke du Maine, a son
of Madame de Montespan. It was a
success bitterly to be deplored. Any
one more odious than Lauzun atici*
his release, it would be difficult to im-
agine. Peevish, grasping, slovenly,
and ungrateful, he hung about Made-
moiselle's establishment; using the
power which a private mariiage had
undoubtedly given him with an inso-
lence that turned her love to disgust

The spirit of a courtier alone rc-
mamed to recall the Lauzun of former
days. When the princess announced
to him the dcat>h of Marie Thdr^e,
he cried : " * People deserve to be im-
prisoned who spread such falsehoods ;
how dare they say such things of the
queen?' . , . -^t last they showed
him the letters, and he had to agree
that queens are mortal like other peo-
ple."

In 1684 Mademoiselle and Lauzun

parted in mutual displeasure. She

H'jected his efforts at conciliation, and

the last entry in her Mcmoires is the

following : " M. de Lauzun was living

as usual in obscurity, but exciting

notice, and of\en concerning matters

which annoyed mo. When I returned

fmm Eu in 1G88, my people were

dressed in new liveries. One day,

when I was walking in the park of
»

" Mademoiselle knew life late," says
M. Sainte-Bcuve ; " but in the end
she know it well, and passed through
every stage of experience. She felt
the slow 8ufft»ring which wears out
love in a heart, the contempt and in-
dignation that crush it, and reached
at last that indifference which finds no
remedy or consolation except in God.
It is a sad day when we find that the
being whom we have loved to adorn
with every perfection and load with
every gift is 80 poor a thing. She
Imd years to meditate upon this bitter
discovery. She died in March, 1693,
aged sixty- six years.**

872

Phytieal Science and Ckrietian BevekUiam.

Lanzan, with characteristic inso-
lence, appeared at the fiineral in the
mourning of a widowed husband.
The king sent the Duke of Saint-
Aignan to bid him withdraw. **At
such a moment I cannot listen to the
voice of pride," was the reply ; « I am
absorbed by my grief, and could wish
to see the king more occupied with his
own.** He remained to the dose of
the ceremony.

The magnificent obsequies were in-
terrupted by a more serious disturb-
ance. An urn, in which part of the
remains were carelessly embalmed,
exploded with a tremendous noise,
frightening all the assistants. It was
said that not even death could come

to Mademoiselle without bc
crons circumstance.

This princess began life
vantages such as fall to the 1
human beinga. What did i
behind her in the world ? I
and seminary under the c
Sisters of Charity ; a very
ary reputation, founded chi
her Memoires, which, thongi
gant in style, are truthful,
and clear; and a characte.
spot or blemish, in an age ¥
characters were rare. He
confessions afford ample ma
cutting criticism, but it woi
unkindly task to turn her owi
upon herself.

PHYSICAL SCIENCE AND CHRISTIAN REVELATI

BT BEY. JAMES A. 8T0THEBT.

II. The advance of science has
thrown some light on a subject of
extreme difficulty and abstruseness :
4ie relation of the qualities or acci-
dents of matter to its substance. It is
a subject of extreme difficulty, into
which it seems not permitted to man
to penetrate beyond the surface; but
in regard to which much ignorance
and misapprehension have been dis-
pelled by the observations and deduc-
tions of modem philosophers. There
are certain external marks or notes
by which we recognize certain mate-
rial things, as their form, their color,
their hardness or softness, etc. One
thing we call wood, another iron, a
third wax, and so on. These external
notes or marks by which we distin-
guish bodies are called their qualities,
accidents, or properties. Underneath
them there is the substance of the
material thing, of which we have no
means whatever of* knowing anything.
What it is that constitutes the differ-
ence between wood and iron, in their

substance, must remain for <
cret to our senses. We cai
that one is harder, heavier, cc
the other; but these obsere
no further than the external
of the two bodies ; regarding t
lute substance, or internal co
we have no possible means o
a judgment. For all that w<
may be the same in all boc
may be as various as the si
ments of matter, now limited
ists to about sixty, or it may
more various. It is one of t
ries of matter which will
never be disclosed to the ey
in this life.

Not only is the nature of
substance thus unknown to i
through the external qualitie
dents, which represent it; bi
informed by science that ohm
qualities are the result of circi
wholly distinct from their aa
complete revolution in pope
has in part been achieyed.

Pkgiieal Seim^ee and CftrnftoM Bevelaiion.

873

to the permanence and immntability
of these qualities of matter. Nothing
seems more natural than to say that a
red roee must bo always red, a violet
always blue, or that the size, shape,
etc., of material bodies are inseparable
from their existence. Yet Proteus
himself was not more various in his
shapes, than are the violet and the rose
m the varieties of color of which thej
are sosceptible. Ck)lor, in fact, has no
existence at all in the material object
which we look at; it is a condition of
the ray of light which enters our eye
after reflection from tlie object, or
after passing through it. Some objects
alHorb one or more parts of the three-
fold visible ray of white light, and
irananii or reflect to our eye only what
remains of its constituent parts ; some
objects send the whole ray, undecom-
po^ to the eye, and wc call them
white; others abdorb it altogether, and
they are said to be black. But all
hodies, whatever their original color,
that is, whatever part of the white ray
they send to the eye, afler absorbing
the rest, may be made to appear of
>ny color, by viewing them under the
infloence of variously colored light;
which proves that their color exists
wt in themselves, but in the light
which falls upon tbem, and on which
t^ substance acts in some unknown
way.

^ Sir John Herschel's testimony on
tfcw subject is very explicit. •* Notli ing
>t irst can seem a more rational, obvi-
^^ wd incontrovertible conclusion,
f*»n that the color of an object is an
"J^ereni quality, like its weight, hjird-
"^^f etc ; and to see the object, and
to see it of its own color, when
^ing hitervenes between our eyes
^ it, are one and the same thing.
J^ this is only a prejudice ; and that
t** 80^ is shown by bringing forward
ft* same sense of vision which led to
* adoption, as evidence on the other
"^; for when the differently colored
F'iiniatic rays are thrown, in a dark
'J[*»i in saccession upon any object,
Jj^ever be the color we are in the
^viit of calling its own, it will appear

of the particular hue of the light which
falls upon it : a yellow paper, for in-
stance, will appear scarlet when illu-
minated by red rays ; yellow, when by
yellow ; green, by green ; and blue, by
blue rays ; its own (so odled) proper
color not in the least mixing with
what it so exhibits.** *

In like manner, other qualities of
matter have no absolute existence, in-
dependent of circumstances. Twenty
solid inches of sea water, if subjected
to a pressure equal to that at a dis-
tance of twenty miles below the sur-
face, would be reduced in volume to
nineteen inches.f A globe, an inch
in diameter, consisting of air of the
ordinary density at the earth's surface,
if it could be removed into space one
radius of the earth, say 4,000 miles,
would expand into a sphere exceeding
in radius the orbit of Saturn, as Sir
Isaac Newton has calculated. Hence
the tail of a great comet, such as that
observed in 1843, and which extended
from its nucleus 200 millions of milcs,{
may, for aught we know, consist only
of a very few pounds or even ounces
of matter, expanded to a degree of
tenuity to our minds almost inconceiva-
ble.§ The same agent, heat, modifies
the extension and form of matter in to-
tally opposite ways ; making clay con-
tract and lose in volume, while expand-
ing water, and still more largely air.
Extension, or form, therefore, is sub-
ject to great modification by change of
circumstances ; nor is weight less so.
A pound weight of matter at the earth's
equator weighs heavier at the poles ;
or, which is the same thfhg, a pendu-
lum oscillates faster at the poles than
at the equator. If removed to the
planet Mars or Mercury, a pound of
matter would lose half its weight ; if
to the surface of Jupiter, it would
weigh nearly three times heavier.

If there is one quality more than
another characteristic of solid rock, it
is the immobility of its parts ; as mo-

• Discouni«,«to., S 71.

t Somervlllc'i Fhysioal Geography, L, chi^. xrL
p. 818.

I Hlnd'M ^olIl<^tl, p. 9S.

I llmchitV* OaUuMf of Aitnmoiny, dbap, sL
|5a0.note.

S74

Pkgtieal Seimee amd ChrMan Bevekiian.

bility is a distinctiTe feature of water
and vapor. Yet experiments in crys-
tallization have demonstrated the exis-
tence of mobility even in solid bodies,
in an unimaginable degree. Mrs.
SomerviUe remarks, tbat ** wo are led,
from the mobility of fluids, to expect
great changes in the relative position
of their molecules, which must be in
perpetual motion, even in the stillest
water and the calmest air ; but we are
not prepared to find modon to such an
extent in the interior of solids. That
their particles are brought nearer by
cold and pressure, or removed further
from one another by heat, might be ex-
pected; but it could not have been
anticipated that their relative positions
could be so entirely changed as to alter
their mode of aggregation. It follows
from the low temperature at which
these cluuiges are cficcted, that there
is probably no position of inorganic
matter tliat is not in a state of relative
motion."* And elsewhere, in her
Physical Geography, the same high
authority assures us that "nothing can
be more certain than that the minute
(uirticK'd of matter are constantly in
m«uiou« fn^m tht: action of heat, mu-
tual attraotiivn, and electricity. Pris-
matic cn'stals of salts of linc are
changed in a ft*w seconds into crystals
of a totally difierent form by the heat
of iho sun; casts of shells ant> found in
nvk5s fK>Mn which the animal matter
has Ux*n nmiOTe^i and its pla«> sup-
plitvl by minend : and the cxcuTadons
in:ido in ivicks diminish sensibly in
««t* in a sh\vt lime if the rvx^ l^ so:^*
ansl in a kvnj^r time when i: U hard :
ciroura^iaiKv* whvh show an i7.:«:s:;rw
ii»v>;iv>n *v the rviKk-K^ tt^4 *vJy in
lht**r ivb;;\v ^>$itxvbs. hu: ia si>»«»,
whis-^h liK'rv i* cvifc^ nMu&xi to Vfl^fve
i* x^wiiXi: r," ei^%r>:v«T : jk row>n- wiu.-x
if i'.,v: ;V *v^ ac^T,.. m^^;. at m»^
l^w v\>-<<'^fr^»jsi «5«ij:;iil> ia ti?,' :Vi>

X-

^< «ftr^..SBi^* oc :>f vNsavr ;:>«i-

i.7i.'jc.\i.,*v«iu; I ^^Vi. AM.. <\V^ cvta^^sf.

that is, incapable of transmitti
But there is no substance k
modem discovery which, if sni
attenuated, is not capable c
seen through. Opacity, there:
no real existence as a qualitj
ter ; it depends only on condi
circumstances. Hardness' or
in like manner, are easily si
from the substance of mattei
in its natural state is sofl, ap
to it and it becomes hard ;
naturally hard, but becomes t
ductile when warmed. Tl
knowledge of the internal con
of material substance, through
dium of its external qualities, i
highest degree uncertain, varis
oflen erroneous. For there is
of those external notes or
which we call qualities, whicl
be changed or modified in sue
as seriously to derange the a
of our observations. Enougl
curacy has been secured for \
poses of our daily life ; but,
senses, our knowledge of the
of quality to substance was n
tended to carry us through the
less field of knowledge, or et
to pronounce with certainty re
the nature, the difference, or t
tity of substance, merely from
dicatioDs given us by its appare
itie^ The5e are truly ao
thin^ whidi do not affect the
of maner; but connected wi
an evanescent way, liable to
chancre, az»d totally baffling
;cmp:s to esiablish any certai
rioii of substance br means of

s^nranCiOS on is q-jatiues.

R^vvnt o^?errations in cb
hare >dll farther demoostraled
pctc^^hy of arriving at any
l:odi^^ oc :Ve iatexr^al sirociure
wr fSwi irs appearances. Tl
cu:? Kt?^:* cTea^ by chemisti
isrr c^ o^r^vt the d^rence I
j^Sfcaacv^ w^irii A^^F'^ar to ev
scaa iv:n$«f drc iiiJBe« thoug
^dS^:c rrifcr sorixce with mai
3«pf«K^* yv< fiiii in indicat
far tkeir cfl

Pkyiieal Science and ChrUtian Reveiaiion.

875

Thus eyrap extracted from the sugar-
cane, or from plants yielding similar
sugar, looks in everj respect the same
as that extracted from tlie juice of the
grape. The i-eflnemeuts of modem
chemistrr, however, have pointed out
several tests to distinguish one from
the other.* And in a beam of polar-
ized light there is provided a test as
sobtlc OS any contributed by the aid
of chemistry. In the instance of
cane sugar, the plane of polarization
revolves to the right ; in grape sugar,
it revolves to the Icf). Of this subtle
agent, Mrs. Somer\'ille remarks, when
stating this interesting fact, that '^it
sarpasses the power even of chemical
analysis in giving certain and direct
evidence of the similarity or difference
existing in the molecular constitution of
bodies, as well as of the permanency
of that constitution, or of the fluctua-
tions to which it may be liablc^f The
san)e delicate test of polarization ena-
bles US to distinguish reflected light,
SDch as the moon's, from the light
which issues from a self-luminous body,
like Sinus. But in all these instan-
ces, the ultimate rationale of its indi-
cations still remains veiled in impenc*
^nhk darkness ; and with it, any
knowledge of the internal substance of
matter.

It is, however, in the mysterious
^^ to which chemists have given
the names of Isomorphism, Isomerism,
■nd AUotropism, tliat we perceive the
™8t direct and remarkable contribu-
tion of modem scientific research to
^ defence of Catholic revelation.
Chemistry enables us to penetrate
fiirthet than any other science into the
•®W operations of Nature; and
f^ge insight has been thus obtained
™to the identity of substance under
two or more external appearances ; and
^ Ae existence of two or more sub-
itanora of distinct character under iden-
«al appearances. A few words will
not be idly devoted to a description of
Aese terms, and of the results asso-
ciated with them.

* Brude** Lectam on Organic Chtmlittr}', p. 153.
t Oopnexloa of Ifhytkal Sclvooet, S x^tt. p. 314.

Isomorphism expresses the phenom-
enon in crystallization established by
Cray Lussac and Mitscherlich, of dif-
ferent compounds assuming the same
crystalline form. The generally re-
ceived law of this process had hitherto
been, that the same substances invari-
ably crystallize in forms belonging to
one system, different substances, in
forms belonging to another. C^ea
had indeed been observed, before the
discovery of Isomorphism, in which the
same element had been seen to crys-
tallize in two forms, belonging to dif-
ferent systems, not geometrically con-
nected. Sulphur, for instance, crystal-
lizing from its solution in the bisulphu-
ret of carbon, assumes a geometrically
different crystalline form from sulphur
when melted by heat, and allowed to
consolidate as it cools. But these and
a few other similar cases had been ex-
plained as depending on a different ar-
rangement of the particles, due most
probably to a difference in the tem-
perature (luring the operation. They
were not thought to interfere with the
general law of the same substance
always assuming the same crystalline
form. The two eminent philosophers
just mentioned ascertained beyond a
doubt that, in many instances, compound
substances, in the process of crystalliz-
ing, assume the same or a cognate form,
though their elements arc totally dif-
ferent. Thus chloride of sodium (sea
salt), sulphate of alumina and potash
(alum), and many other compound sub-
stances equally dissimilar, crystallize
in the form of the cube and its con-
geners. Other crystalline forms also
arc found to be common to many dif-
ferently constituted compounds. "To
these groups of analogous elements,"
says Professor Gregory, from whose
work, On Inorganic Chemistry, we
have abridged this account, ^ the name
of Isomorphous groups lias been given,
as there is every reason to believe
tliat as elements they possess the same
form ; and the phenomena of identical
form in compounds of different but an-
alogous composition, have received the
name of Isomorphism. Two elemeats .

876

PkytieaL Sciemee and CkrMan Bevdadaiu

are said to be isomorphous, which
either crystallize in the same form, or
may be substituted for each other in
their compounds, equivalent for equiva-
lent (the other elements remaining
unchanged), without afiecting the form
of the compound. We can hardly
doubt that not only the salt, but the
acids are really isomorphous, and
would be found so if we could obtain
them all in crystals ; and* we have the
same reason to conclude that the ele-
ments of these acids are also isomor-
phous ; that arsenic and phosphorus,
sulpliur and selenium, for example,
crystallize in the same form."*

The converse of this phenomenon is
also included among the discoveries of
modem science; the same substance
is sometimes observed to crystallize in
two different forms not geometrically
allied ; and the occurrence of this new
exception to the received law of crys-
^llization is called Dimorphism.

Isomerism is the term employed to
represent another exceptional class
of facts, observed by later chemists to
interfere with the general rule, that
analogy or similarity of composition
implies analogy in form and external
properties. Two or more compounds,
formed of the same element, in the
same relative proportions, and having,
therefore, the same composition in 100
parts, are often found entirely distinct
and unlike in all their properties.
Such bodies are called Isomeric ''The
discovery of Isomerism," says the same
eminent chemist, " however unoxjiect
ed, is entii*ely consistent with the
atomic theory, of which it is merely a
special case. Isomerism is of very
frequent occurrence among organic
compounds, owing, no doubt, to their
unusually large atomic weights, since
the numerous atoms of the elements
afford much scope for isomeric modifi-
cations ; and, doubtless, this principle
plays an important part in the processes
of organic life and growth, as well as
in decay." t

More remarkable than all of these

• Inor^'anic ChemUtrjr, Ed. 1853; pp. Sb ettcq.

exceptions to hitherto established laws
is the discovery of the existence of
simple elements under totally dissimi-
lar forms. Thus sulphur exists under
three distlnet and incompatible forms,
or modifications, call?d Allotropif*.
Carbon likewise in three ; the diamond,
which is crystallized in octohedron?,
and is limpid and transparent; gra-
phite, which is black, opaque, and crvs-
tallized in prisms ; and common char-
coal, lamp-black, etc., which is hh k
and quite amorphous. Phosphorus
has two allot ropic forms : one crystal-
lized, white and transparent, and easily
set on fire; the other, deep rediliT»ii-
brown, amorphous, and inflamed with
much less ease. Each of these element-
ary bodies thus assumes appearances
as dissimilar as if they were totally
different bodies, possessed of a j>hrsi-
cal character quite unlike each other.
Well may Professor Gregor}*, afirr
this summary of the subject, ad<l : ''Tlie
occurrence of such marked differences
in the properties of elementary bodies
is very remarkable, and of great inter-
est in reference to the molecular con-
stitution of matter ; but the subject ha»
not yet been fully investigated."*

The speculations of another very^
distinguished chemist, Professor Fara —
day, in this field of recent observation^
are worthy of place in this collective*
testimony of modem science, to the un—
perfect acquaintance with the ultimattr
constitution of material substance
attainable by any amount of study of
its external properties or appearances*
" lliere was a time," says this eminent:
philosopher, ^and that not long ago,
when it was held among the funcU-^
mental doctrines of chemistry, tha^
the same body always manifested th^
same chemical qualities ; excepting
only such variations as might be du*f
to the three conditions of solid, liquid*
and gas. This was held to be a cano«*
of chemical philosophy, as distinguthi-
ed from alchemy ; and a belief in tb«
possibility of transmutation was heW
to be ini|x>ssible, because at variance

* Inorg. Ohemiitry, pp. 4^ 44

Pk^ical Sdienee and Christian ReveUUion.

877

with this fandamental tenet. But wc
are now conversant with manj exam-
ples to the contrary ; and, strange to
sav, no less than four of the non-metal-
lic elements, namely, oxygen, sulpliur,
phosphoros, and ciirhon, are subject
to this modification. The train of
speculation which this contemplation
awakens within ns is extraordinary.
If the condition of allotropism were
alone confined to compound bodies,
that is to say, to bodies made up of
two or more elements, we might easi-
ly frame a plausible hypothesis to
account for it ; we might assume that
some variation had taken place in the
arrangements of their particles. But
when a simple body, such as oxygen,
19 concerned, this kind of hypothesis is
uo longer open to us ; we have only
one kind of particle to deal with ; and
tbe theory of altered position is no long-
er applicable. In short, it does not seem
possible to imagine a rational hypothe-
cs to explain the condition of allotro-
pism as regards simple bodies. We
cao onlj accept it as a fact, not to be
doabted, and add the discovery to that
long list of truths which start up in the
fieM of eveiy science, in opposition to
wr most cherished theories and long
received convictions."*

Those persons who have resisted
1^ evidence of Catholic revelation on
"* primd facie ground that sound
P**>k»ophy and a knowledge of the
laical phenomena of nature are di-
rectly opposed to some of its doctrines,
"J^t begin, we should think, to feel
tueir position a little less impregnable
*"*n it seemed before such sentiments
■■ 4we were warranted by the actual-
V established facta of modem science,
^ith sadi evidence of its recent fruits,
we may be well satisfied to watch with
'■Merest and congratulation the progress
^ plkilosophical inquiry conducted in
"•eha spirit ; not so much for our own
•Jjtt, to whom, .indeed, no analogies
^tW by any human science could
^d anything in the way of confirraa-
*o to what we have been taught by

I * l«tQi« go NoB-MeUllic Elemeoto, pp. 115, 116.

divine testimony, transmitted through
the church of Christ to our remote
age; but for the sake of the erring
and the doubting among the intellec-
tual minds of our fellow-countrymen ;
with the hope that their attention might
be arrested and turned in the direction
plainly enough indicated by such anal-
ojgics. With one more extract, we
must take leave of Professor Faraday's
highly interesting volume ; only beg-
ging as many of our readers as are in-
terested in such pursuits to purchase
it, and study it for themselves. After
pointing out the difference between
common and allotropic phosphorus, he
continues : " Wc can scarcely imagine
to ourselves a more complete opposi-
tion of qualities than is here presented
in these two conditions of phosphorus ;
an opposition not limited by merely
physical manifestations of density or
crystallographic form, but recognizable
through all the phases of solution, ther-
mal demeanor, and physiological effect
The metamorphosis has, hi fact, been so
complete, that we can only demonstrate
the allotropical substance to be phos-
phorus, by reducing it to its original
state, and subjecting it to ordinary
tests. If the forces determining its
constitution had been so balauecd that
the power of reduction were denied to
us, then the substance we now call
cdiotropie phosphorus must necessarily,
according to the strictest propriety of
logic, have been admitted to be not
phospiionis, but some otiier body. It
is imi>ossible, rationally, to deny that
such pennjinent incontrovertibility may
not lie within the power of natunil laws
to effect. That we are not aware of
such an example, cannot be accepted
as a proof of its non-existence; and
analogy, the guidance to which we re-
fer when direct testimony fails, is in
favor of the afiirmative.*** From the
great powers of analysis at the com-
mand of this distinguished physicist,
directed as much by the courage as by
the wisdom and the candid spirit of
true philosophy, it is impossible to say

* i^iurcs. etc, pp. 4a, 48.

878

Pk^tical iSetence and Ckrulian Sevdatiam.

what further insight ioto the constitu-
tion of matter may not hereafter be
obtained. Such an instance is surely
of itself a full justification of our san-
guine hopes for the future of science
in its relation to wliat has been reveal-
ed by eternal and unchanging truth.

Rather by way of indication than
of summary of the reflections sug-
gested by these iuquiries, wo would
ask, how is it that the almost illimita-
ble extension of gross material ele-
ments should be accepted without
hesitation, while the possibility of the
spiritual and glorified body of the
Lord existing, without division or
multiplication of itself, in every
Catholic tabernacle, and also in
heaven, is regarded as so wildly im-
possible, and even monstrous a con-
ception, as to be scouted at the bare
mention of it ? When philosophy ex-
pects us to believe that black, crum-
bling charcoal, and the hai*d, shining
diamond, are one and the same simple
substance, why should it be thought
in the nature of things so incredible
as at once to preclude all further ex-
amination of the evidence on which it
rests, that the substance of the Child
of Bethlehem, of the risen and as-
cended Lord, and of the most holy
eucharist, are one and the same. We
are far from saying that the mode of
existence is the same in all these in-
stances ; we only claim for revelation
what is conceded to science ; that ap-
pearances should not be held, in limine^
conclusive of the question, nor be al-
lowed to outweigh or pnjudice other
evidence ; for in every province of
the universe of knowledge things are
not what they seem. If what exists,
or may exist, is to be limited by what
human organs of senile can perceive,
the boundaries of knowledge shrink
into the narrow(?st compass : the eye
and ear of an infant are enthroned as the
judges of the constitution of nature ;
discovery and the progress of science
are no more, or would never have
been ; mankind would yet be sunk in
the imbecility of its primitive igno-
rance.

in. Next to the fallacious testi-
mony of the faaman senses, and the
hidden nature of material subataoce,
the subtle influences at woik in the
physical world seem very remarkably
toi indicate some curious analogies be-
tween the constitution of matter in iu
finer forms, and the nature of spirimal
agencies. Recent analysis of the solar
beam, for instance, iias revealed rays
hitherto unknown, because invisible
to the acutest vision unaided by the
appliances of science, and for' long
concealed even from its piercing scru-
tiny, but yielding at last to the n'fine-
ments of modem investigation. These
invisible rays have been proved to
exercise most important functions in
nature ; in the genu! nation and ve<ie-
tation of plants, and other widely
multiplied physical processes. There
are few who have not heard much of
the magnetic and electric currents
which penneatc every portion of the
surface of the globe and its surround-
ing atmosphere ; 'but we imagine that
not so many are aware of tlie power-
ful influence which they possess in
the economy of our planet. " There is
strong presumptive evidence," says
Mrs. Somervillc, '* of the influence ot'
the electric and magnetic currents on
the formation and direction of the
mountain masses and mineral veins;
but their slow persevering action on
the ultimate atoms of matter has been
placed beyond a doubt by the fonna-
tion of rubies, and other gem?, as well
as various other mineral substances
by voltaic electricity."* And, in an-
other [)lace, in the same instructive
work, she remarks, that •* it would be
difficult to follow the rapid course
of discovery through the complicated
mazes of magnetism and electricity;
the action of the electric current oa
the polarized sunbeam, one of the
most beautiful of modern discoverie*i
leading to relations hitherto unsu^'
pected between that power and tk**
complex assemblage of risible aJ>^
invisible influences on solar light, 1C«

• Physical Qcographjr, IL, chapi. xzH. vl 8&

Phs^ticai Science and CSaitHan Bevehium.

379

one of which nature has recently been
made to paint her own likeness."*
These influences, for all their subtlety,
have a real, appreciable existence,
and fulfil a definite and beneficent end.
A curious example of the subser-
viency of the mvisible magnetic cur-
rent to the wants of men is mention-
ed by Humboldt as having occurred
to himself, in one of his voyages off the
west coast of South-America. Bad
weather had prevailed for several
days, so as to shut out all view of
land, or of the sun and stars. The
crew were in expectation of making a
particular port on that coast : on con-
sulting his dip-needle, the scientific
passenger discovered tliat the ship
had passed the latitude of its destined
port; the ship's course was altered,
and much delay and, probable, danger
avoided*! Nor are the agencies de-
structive to human life less subtile or
recondite. Various miasmata of a
pestilential character defy every re-
finement of chemical analysis to de-
tect the cause of their mischievous
operation, or the difference of their
elementary constitution from that of
pure and wholesome air. The most
universal, and, as far as our know-
ledge serves, the most important of
all physical influences, that of gravi-
tation, is also the subtlest and most oc-
cult ; traversing the vast regions of
space with instantaneous speed, and
pervading the remotest fields of the
givat universe of matter; penetrat-
ing without sensible interval of time
to distances far beyond the utmost
reach of human thought, with a force
which maintains the stars of hcavon
in their courses, and gives stability to
every known material system.

If these occult agencies in the mate-
rial world are recognized as fulfilling
their mission, for all their secrecy anil
subtlety, or rather, by means of these
^ery characteristics, why is the possi-
biUty of a hidden yet efficient agency
«i the spiritual world denounced as a
^rcey against common sense and

''jf^nleal Qtocnphj, II., zxzilL pp. 400, 401. '
I L, ifl ; m. IW.

sound philosophy ? The physical
system of things has its great labora-
tory of decomposition and reconstruc-
tion kept in operation by these unseen
influences ; it is indebted to them for
the maintenance of its existence.
Science rejoices to measure them by
their admirable results, to detect their
operations in their sensible effects.
Why must the sacramental system
revealed in the spiritual world be with
equal justice refused its claim to an
agency hardly more subtle ? Philoso-
phers admit the truth of observations
in these occult natural agencies, and
have no doubt of their real existence ;
why do they so contemptuously regard
the result of our observations in those
which are secret and spiritual, when
our observations are as numerous, and
their evidence as good ?

IV. The whole question of the re-
lation of space and time becomes one
of vast interest and importance, in
connection with a common objection
made to the [wssibility of our holding
communication with the saints and
angels in heaven, as Catholics arc
taught to believe they may. Across
a space of such unknown vastness, it
is alleged that the idea of transmitting
a wish or a prayer is contrary to every
principle of philosophy. Now, assum-
ing, what indeed has never boen prov-
ed, that the heaven of the blessed is
as remote from our daily path as some
maintain it to be, and without enter-
ing here into the abstnict question as
to whether the idea of space or of
time is the older and simpler, some
considerations are suggested by the
study of modern scientific principles,
which may throw light on the objec-
tion ju8t staled, and may help us to
ascertain its real worth.

It is evident that time and space
may be made a measure of each other.
The distance from one point in space
to another may be expressed in so
many units of time, eay a minute, an
hour, or a day, required to traverse
the intervening distance at a given
velocity. Hence, if velocity of motioQ

380

Pkiftiedl Science and Christian Bevetoiian*

from point to point be represented by
the simple formula of y'^ we obtain
two otiicr formulas representing; time
and space, respectively, in terms of
each other.

Thus, if Velocity = Space
Tiuie"

Then, Time«= Space

Velocity
and Space=Time X Velocity.*
There is a little instrument much
▼alued by philosophical observers, but
of no great intricacy in itself, which is
at once an unerring measure of space
and time ; we mean a common pen-
dulum oscillating seconds in a given
level, say of Loudon, at a given lev-
el, say of the sea, other conditions,
as of the thermometer^ etc., being the
same. This instrument, beating
seconds, is an invariable meiisurc of
length ; in the latitude of London, for
examr|)le, at the level of the sea, with
thermometer at 02** Fahr., it is invari-
ably 39*1393 inches long. And, con-
versely, provide such an instminent of
the length just mentioned, and set it
a-going; its oscillations will exactly
measure out one second of time.
Further, as a measure of length, it
enables us to ascertain the weight of
a cubic inch of water, in parts of a
pound troy, whence the iui{K'rial
standards of weight and capacity are
derived. Hence a pendulum is a
constant rej)resentative of space, in its
lengtli ; and of time, in its oscillation.
At any point on the surface of tiie
globe, a tikI of a certiiin given length
will invariably, in similar cii-cumstan-
ces, beat seconds ; and a rod, beating
seconds as it swings, will invariably
measure a certain fixed length, ac-
corduig to tile latitude. Why it does
so, do<*8 not enter into our arguments
now ; it is enough that the fact is as-
certained, and is one of the very com-
monest applicAtion to practise. Every
good house-clock is evidence of it
In tlie same town, for instance, the

• Fit pf»iniiN\ rail Vel-iflly 40 inllf:* nn lnmr. an«l
Time 10 liouris ; thvn Spiu'e "- 4') x lU -= 4<>U inilvs ;
or call H|>a<-e 4lH) nillrt, Velocity bviii^ the »anie ;
then Tline = ♦ " ». - 10 boor*.

seconds' pendulums of all regularly-
going clocks are of equal length to the
minute fraction of an inch ; and all
pendulums, of the same length exactly,
keep the same time exactly. In other
wonlfl, space is made a me^isure of
time, and time is a measure of
8i)ace,

We said, just now, that space may
l>e represented in terms of time, ani
time in those of spacft, the raU of
] ^elociti/ being given. London is Niid
to be ten hours from Edinburgh, when
the transit is made at the rate of tbrtj
miles an hour. '^ As long as it would
take to go to London," may be given
as an expression equivalent to ten
hours, at the same rate of motion.
But vary that nite, and the termd
used instantly represent very variable
quantities. Ten hours from London,
at the rate of a pedestrian travelling
his four miles an hour, repn.*sent nn
insignificant dit«tance of only forty
miles ; ^ as long as it would take to go
to London" now cxfji-esse^ a i>eriod
of a hundred hours, or more thau four
days. But take the wings of lijzht,
and instantly the distance suppa«ed. if
expressed in terms of time, dwindles
to a minute portion of a second ; even
this is long, if you measure the sjiace
by the flash transmitte<l along the
electric wire. Leaving the oompori-
tively insignificant s|»aced on the sur-
fjice of the globe for those vaster dis-
tances which divide planet from planet
and from the sun, the time of 8 min-
utes 3'3 seconds, which the sohir light
takes to travel from its source lo oar
globe may be taken as an ex[)re3sion of
its distance from that luminary. Nar,
there is a rate of velocity 8urpas«iii^
all these, bridging over the vast span
of Neptune's orbit, for example, or the
vaster diameter of a comet*8 path, int
unit of time too minute for the gubtleit
human instruments or calculations ti)
appreciate. We mean the force orin-
fiuence of gravitation, which, e«r
since the first moment when the ion
and the planets were created, has been
passing instantaneously from the cen-
tre of the solar system to eveiy paAf

Phyrieal Science and Cknitian Eevelaiion.

881

even the most distant, of his wide em-
pire, and back again from its furthest
point to his centre.

Now, it is evident that if you under-
take to express the distance of sun
from pUmet in terms of the time, at
this rate of velocity, it is reduced to
nothing. The sun is as effectually
present, for instance, in his all-impor-
tant gravitating influence, at every in-
Btant of time, in the planet Neptune,
nearly three thousand millions of miles
awaj, as the hand of the schoolboy is
present at the end of his sling, while
he whirls it round his head, and re-
tains the stone in its place by the
string. Cut the string, and the stone
flies off; suspend for an instant the
influence, or force, or attraction, or
whatever you please to call it, which
binds Neptune to the sun, and he flics
off in a path more eccentric than any
comet's.

There are two ways of spanning
distance : one by actual, bodily transit ;
another by the transmission of an im-
pulse or wave, propagated and repeat-
ed along the space intervening, in
some medium more or less mobile or
subtle. The planetary motions are
good examples of the actual translation
of bodies through space : this earth of
ours sweeping lUong, in its orbit round
the sun^at a rate of- something like
nineteen miles in a second, or 68,000
miles in an hour, besides its rotatory
motion on its axis of 24,000 miles every
day. The planet Venus exceeds this
velodtj, travelling at the rate of 80,-
000 miles an hour ; while Mercury, in
the same time, accomplishes 109,360
mUes. Even this inconceivable vclo-
otj is far surpasssd by the comet of
1843, which, with a tail two millions
of miles long, and a nucleus apparent-
ly larger than our globe, swept round
^ sun, at its perihelion, at the rate
I ^ 866 miles, or nearly the distance
fttHn Edinburgh to I^mdon, in one
teoond*

Vekcities of impulse exceed those
^ b)d]lj translation ; that is, 8U[)po8-

» OtOan «r Artnmomy. | BM, 908l

ing we may class among examples of
wave motion the transmission of
sound, light, electricity, and perhaps
gravitation. Dr. Lardner mentions
his having, on one occasion, in com-
pany with Leverrier, written a mes-
sage by electric telegraph, at a dis-
tance of more than a thousand miles,
and at the rate of 19,500 woi:ds in an
hour, or of 5*5 words in a second.*
At a similar distance, and indeed at a
much greater, a steel bar may be made
to >nbrate fourteen thousand miles in
a second.t Such a velocity evidently
far surpasses the power of human
comprehension. Even in regard to
the less rapid transmission of light,
the eminent astronomer Bcssel can-
didly confesses that " the distance
which light traverses in a year is not
more appreciable to us, than the dis-
tance which it traverses in ten years.
Therefore, every endeavor must fail to
convey to the mind any idea of a
magnitude exceeding wiiat is accessi-
ble on the earth."J

Now, even supi)Osing that we are
acquainted with all the methods which
exist in nature for spanning vast dis-
tances, and if, as we iiave shown, dis-
tance may be expressed in terms of
the time taken to travel over it, or
transmit a communication across it,
the thought forcibly occurs. What is
distance, if viewed ap^rt from the
means at disposal for overpassing it ?
A friend in the next room is not nearer
us than another in the next continent,
if in the same interval of time we can
communicate with either. To be sure,
one of them we might see sooner than
the other, but sight is no necessary
means of communicating ; the blind
are forever debarred from it- Man
can (communicate with man, even ma-
terially, without either sight or hear-
ing ; and far beyond the range of
either.

But who shall bo bold enough to say
that other and subtler methods of com-
munication may not exist in the mar
terial universe ? or that the world of

* Museum nt Science and Art, part tUI. p. 11(L
t lb., pari ix. p. SK)L % Quoted, Cotmot, UL 81L

882

Ph^ieal Sdenee and CStritUum JSeMfaHJNi.

spirit has none more vivid than those
subtle cnrrents which permeate the
world of matter? To a generation or
two ago, the means of transmitting in-
telligence, which are now quite fami-
liar to us, would have seemed fabu-
lous ; a little further back in the his-
tory of Europe, their discovery might
have involved the penalty due to witch-
craft. If the passage of a material
impulse across the wide orbit of Nep-
tune unites him intimately at every
moment with the sun, is there any dis-
tance that can be said absolutely to
present an impassable gulf to the
intercourse of spirit with spirit ? Or,
can it be said that some such means
of communication do not, and cannot
exist, because human senses do not
perceive them, nor human intelligence
comprehend them ? Transmission by
impulse surpasses in velocity every
known instance of actual, bodily trans-
lation : why mu->t what we yet know
of the former be fixed as the limit of
what is possible? Why may there
not be some means of communication
surpassing in swiftness the flash of the
lightning, or the influence of gravita-
tion, as far as it exceeds the sweep of
the comet or the slow progress of the
pedestrian? Why must it be pro-
nounced an idle dream, that we may
hold one end of a chain of impulses
vibrating from earth to heaven, lying
along the future track of our emanci-
pated and purified spirits ?

And pursuing analogy one step fur-
ther, it is no severe demand on the
imagination to conceive that the uni-
versal presence of God, which em-
braces and interpenetrates the immen-
sity of space, may be, to the subtle
and vivid impulses from spirit to spirit,
what, in another onler of things, the
elastic ether of the planetary and
sidereal spaces is to vibrations of ma-
terial creation; that it may fulfil for
those similar functions of propagation
and transmission. In him who is
everywhere, at every instant, and for-
ever, intelligence may easily be con-
ceived to pass between the remotest
points of space, with a speed not slower

than coexistence itself;
there is no passage or mot
time or space ; he is the <
ble Eternal, here and now.

V. We are forcibly s(
referring to the discoverie
science, with the very slei
on which the mass even
persons accept their most
and improbable results,
persons of all those whi
much fluency and show o(
on subjects of physical »
tested, by Iheir own obsc
truth of one of tlie pheno
they converse about?
persons, for instance, who
light and heat in the san
been separated, have actu
it by personal experimei
seen it proved by anotl:
many persons are there
ment in England and 8<
have verified by their o\
tion and calculation the 8
ure of the earth, or its di
the sun and moon ; not
other more intricate p
physics, of which they hi
sonal knowledge whate\
mass of mankind are co
ceive these things on suf
mony of men competent
they deem competent, to i
on such subjects. Here,
the domain of science, the
altation of private judgn
hellion against scientific
and it is a wise and a ji
ment that it should be so.
not many men, in any ag
with the intellectual outfl
for such verifications ;
would nut be sufficient to
man to accomplish then
John Herschel lias the fc
mirable remarks, which ar
to our present purpose. **
assertion will make any <
that in one second of ti
beat of a pendulum of a <
of light travels over 19:
and would therefore peHb

JP^ftieal Science and Christian Bevelaiian.

883

of the world in about the same time
that it requires to wink with our eye-
lids, and in much less than a switl
runner occupies in taking a single
stride? What mortal can be made
to believe, without demonstration, that
the suu is almost a million times larger
than the earth? and that, although
ID remote from us that a cannon ball
shot directly toward it would be
twenty years in reaching it, yet it
affects the earth by its attraction in
an appreciable instant of time ? But
what arc fhese to the astonishing
truths which modem optical inquiries
liavc disclosed, which teach us that
e^ery point of a medium through
which a ray of light [)asses is affect-
ed with a succession of periodical
movements, regularly occurring at
equal intervals, no less than five hun-
ted millions of millions of times in a
nngle second? That it is by such
nH>vements, communicated to the
aerves of our eyes, that we see ; nay,
nwre, that it is the frequency' of their
TCcorrence which affects us with the
wnse of the diversity of color. That,
for instance, in acquiring the sensation
of redness, our eyes arc affected four
bnndred and eighty-two millions of
J^KHis of times ; of yellowness, five
nwjdiud and forty-two millions of
"iUionB of times; and of violet,
■^tti hundred and seven millions of
""flions of times in a second. These
■'*i 1^'ertheless, conclusions to which
■'jy one may most certainly arrive,
^^^ wiU only be at the trouble of ex-
•°^«ig the chain of reasoning by
wljich they have been obtained."
J* Theology, or the science of God
™ bis revealed will, is, as might
"•^^ been expected, not less, but
2^ lecondite than any other, as its
^cts are vaster, more remote from
"""Jft'i understanding, than those of
J*|y other science; surely, on philo-
J^jtiil principles, it is not unrea-
J^le that authority should have its
eight here, also, and equal measure
r^ to be dealt to all. Yet the
^^m world is agreed in ridiculing
**^ ^oanciDg the principle of au-

thority in religious matters, as the
bane of human society ; and in exalt-
ing private judgment and opinion, as
the Christian's only ultimate appeal in
the matter. Apply this principle of in-
dependence to any other science, to any
subject of human knowledge,, or to any
object of intelligent inquiry ; and a
race of sciolists, pedants, and sceptics
would inevitably rcsulL The author-
ity of great names in science would
lose all its just honor ; there would be
no system, no progress in observa-
tions ; thousands of persons, incompe-
tent to do more than deny the conclu-
sions of the learned and the able,
would refuse thiir assent to these, till
the impossible time should arrive,
when, by actual and personal investi-
gation, they should be pleased to pro-
nounce judgment on the accuracy of
these conclusions ; life would be con-
consumed in negation ; mutual trust
and deference to superior knowledge
and capacity would be annihilated.
AVTietiier in this incompatibility of
private judgment with its best inter-
ests, and even with its stability, Reve-
lation is vei-y different from Science,
we leave to the study of our readers,
and to their observation of tlie fine gni-
dations of independent jud^jment wliich
conduct from Luther to Strauss ; the
former of whom begjui by deny uig the
pope, and the latter ended by impugn-
ing the divinity of Jesus Christ.

"V^. The principle of authority and
its correlative, subordination and de-
pendence, is represented, in a remark-
able manner, in the constitution of phy-
sical nature, especially in the province
of astronomy. It is a remariv of Dr.
Whewell in his Bridgewater Treatise,*
" that the rektions among the phmets
is uniformly, not co-ordinate, but sub-
ordinate. Satellites are subject to the
influence of their primaries ; primaries
to that of the central sun ; the central
sun itself to a hisrher and more distant
centre ; in a sublimer material hierar-
chy, ascending in gradations of im-

* fiohn*! Edition, p. ITS.

884

Phjftieal Science and CkrieUan JSevelaiiatu

mense nnmerical magnitude ; and thus
while insuring the stability of the whole
planetary and stellar systems, ulti-
mately, as every analogy teaches us,
making one grand centre of revolution
and subordination, at a point of space
whose distance we cannot even ima-
gine." In his remarks on the Third
Law of Kepler, namely, that the
squares of the times of planetary revo-
lution round the sun are proportional
to the cubes of their mean distances
from that central luminary, Sir J.
Ilerschel has the following pertinent
observations, "Of all the laws to
which induction from pure observation
has ever conducted man, tlus third
law, as it is called, of Kepler, may
justly be regarded as the most re-
markable, and the most pregnant
with important consequences. When
we contemplate the constituents of
the planetary system, from the point
of view which this relation afibnls us,
it is no longer mere analogy which
strikes us — ^no longer a general re-
semblance among them, as individuals
independent of each other, and circu-
lating about the sun, each according to
its own peculiar nature^ and connect-
ed with it by its own peculiar tic.
The resemblance is now perceived
to be a true family likeness ; they
are bound up in one chain — winter-
woven in one web of mutual rela-
tion and liarmonious agreement —
subjected to one pervading influ-
ence, which extends from the centre
to the furthest limits of that great sys-
tem ; of which all of them, the earth
included, must henceforth be regarded
as members."* The remarks of the
same great philosopher on the systems
of double stars, in a later part of his
work on astronomy, bear still more di-
rectly on the view we are proposing.
" It is not with the revolutions of bod-
ies of a planetary or cometary nature
round a solar centre, that we are now
concerned ; it is with that of sun round
sun — each, perhaps, at least in some
binary systems, where the individuals

• OtttiioM oC Aitronomx, olwp. Ix. % 48&

are very remote, and t
revolution very kmg, aco
its train of planets and I
closely shrouded from oc
splendor of their respec
crowded into a space b&
greater proportion to the
terval which separates t
distance of the satellites <
from their primaries bea
tances from the sun itseli
tinctly characterized
would be incompatible
bility of their systems,
planetary nature of their
less closely nestled unde;
their immediate superio
of another sun in its p<
sage round their own
them off, or whirl them i
terly incompatible with (
necessary for the existem
habitants. It must be <
we have a strangely wi<
field for speculative ex
one which it is not easy
uriating in."*

VII. The phenomena <
gest an interesting view <
eral, which we shall in
faintly outline. It is con
as an objection to the do<
elation regarding the Bl
rist, for example, that it
'philosophy, inasmucli a
and implies the suspensio
sal lawy which connects
nite accidents or qualities
variably with their corres
stance ; for in the Holy ]
proiKirties, qualities, or
one substance are attache

By a ^^ Law'* in phy«
can be understood than
from a sufficiently hirge
served facts, establishinj
and careiiil and extensivt
a uniformity of result in tl
circumstances. Some h
to be " empirical," whicl
rived from careful noting

^ OvtUnet of Astronomy, ^«

PkyticcH Science and Okristtan EevekOum*

385

recQiTing phenomena, enunciate no
principle, or rationale, but merely the
numerical result of observation. Thus
Kepler^s three laws of planetary mo-
tion, and Bode's law of planetary dis-
tances from the sun, are instances of
law simply and confessedly empirical.
Newton's law of gravitation is said to
furnish the principle which is involved
in Kepler's formula of details ; because
once Newton's law is admitted as gov-
erning planetary motion, what Kepler
observed of the movements of the plan-
ets, can be deduced by calculation. It
would be perhaps more philosophical,
ui the present state of our knowledge,
to regard even the most apparently
i elementary and fondamental law as
• only empirical, and the ultimate prin-
\ ciple as lying deeper than any known
law. In this view, a law like that of
* Newton's demonstrating, would be said
to lie only one step nearer the ulti-
mate principle than the earlier and
more empiricaL Probably there is
00 ultimate principle nearer than the
^"▼ine volition.

h fact, the Uiw of gravitation is now
larded by philosophers as something
"^ of the ultimate solution of ma-

1*^ attraction and repulsion ; they
^ S^ping their way, at this moment,
to somethmg more universal than that
«w, as may be gathered from the fol-
|owing observations of Sir J. Herschel :
^ matter from what ultimate cause
^ power which is called gravitation
origniates — be it n virtue lodged in the
!^ as its receptacle, or be it pressure
"^ without, or the resultant of many
Pfessmes or solicitations of unknown
,^^^ magnetic or electric ethers, or
"iJpalBes— €till, when finally brought
^(ier our contemplation, and summed
.P into a single resultant energy, its
^2^^<'«* i* frofn many points on all
^^^^^fward the sun's centre.''*
«Whence is this uncertainty about
^^ probable nature of this force ? Be-
j^^^ oniTGrsal as it has been thought,
j^Rttii m certain circumstances, as in
^^*^ electrical conditions, and within

\ ob»p. Ix. f 490.
TOk IV. 85

very small distances ; when the rela-
tion of material particles to one an-
other is one of repulsion, and not of at-
traction. Take another law, as it is
called, that fluids will always rise as
high as their soarce, and no liigher.
The phenomena of capillary attraction
prove that this law does not hold in vM
cases. The chemical law of atomic
combination is sometimes found signal-
ly to fail. Physical laws, therefore,
like these, are good only as far as they
go; there are limits to their applica-
tion.

Why may not this be true in regard
to the law which is said to militate
against the doctrine of the blessed
Eucharist] It may hold good for a ,
thousand instances, and may feil in
the next, like other physical laws;
and that instance nuiy be the very
one of this revealed doctrine. Except
Ho prohat regidam is a sound rule in a
certain sense ; it tells the other way,
however, when the absolute impossi-
bility even of an exception is main-
tained in regard to any physical law.

But, in fact, we see that this law of
relation between quality, or accident,
and substance, is -very uncertain in its
application to many conditions of mat-
ter. Modern discovery has much di-
minished the number of the properties,
or qualities, of matter ; and has prov-
ed that even these are by no means
constant in the same substance, nor
always variable in different sub-,
stances; so that one substance often
looks to every sense, like another,
wholly different ; and " behaves," like
it, in a variety of ways ; while the
same substance has sometimes more
. than one mode of appearance. There
is, in fact, no law of uniformity be-
tween material substance and its prop-
erties ; if there is any law on the sub-
ject, it is the ^ther way; and the
result of discovery seems clearly to de-
monstrate that we know absolutely
nothing of the nature of substance.

VIIL closely connected with this
view of law is the interesting sub-
ject of secular variations, observed

386

Pkjfsical Science and GkrUtian Sevelatiim,

throughout nature, but especially in
the motions and temponu'y disturb-
ances in the heavenly spaces, and
which afford, in fact, the be«t evidence
of the stability of the vast eystem of
creation. A variation is observed in
the ellipticity of the earth's orbit, for
instance, of which one evident proof is
the acceleration of the moon's motion
round her primar}' ; it might seem as
if, at some vastly remote period in fu-
ture time, the total derangement of our
planetary system must ensue ; but cal-
culation has assured us that there is a
point, far short of that, at which there
will occur a change ; and in the lapse
of ages things will return to their
original condition. Thus beyond an
exception to law there is still Law
existing supreme, regulating the con-
ditions and the term of such exception-
al existence. In a similar manner,
the law of storms, as it is called,
establishes the dominion of definite
order even in the confusion and mad
fury of the tropical hurricane ; so
definite, and so completely under the
control of observed rule, that naviga-
tors are provided with certain instruc-
tions for evading the overwhelming
force of those terrible visitations. We
think of these cycles of apparent ex-
ception and departure from c>t:iblish-
ed order, in the physical world, whon
we hear objections made against this
or that apparent anomaly in the spirit-
ual and moral government of God ;
till the principles and laws of one
government are proved wholly unlike
those of the other, we imagine a secu-
lar variation not impossible in the one
as it actually exists in the other ; and
we can endure even a temporary
eclipse of the outward glory of hi-
church, the prevalence of her encmiei^
against her, for a longer or a shorter
time ; the exile of her chief pastor ;
the triumph of iniquity in her glorious
capital ; convinced tlmt erratic trains
of events like these are subject to law
in the permission of him who governs
as he made the universe of matter and
of mind, by an act of his sovereign
and onmipotent will.

IX. From what has prox»
or two general reflections oca
intelligent mind, somewhat
effect. It seems that the ho:
science has never been long sta
and is now opening wider ilaii
former |)eriod. Every sciei
passed through many strange
of empiricism, before reach i
philosophical basis on whicli
rests. All of them are dLsclosi
and analogies undreamed of
grandfathers. A very few yea
a book on chemistry or pir
old and out of date. We are
on to further knowledge ; strai
unimagined relations between
and matter, and still stranirer 1
matter and mind, are no doubi
ing the detection of future disct
our children, or their childr
know more than we. A sin*
tence of Professor Faraday'*
tions on the subject of Allotro
sufficient to open a wide view
possible cxireer of science,
philosopher ends," he says, '*
ing himself the question?, ]
does chemical identity consi:
what will these wonderful c!
ments of allotropism en<l ? \
the so-called chemical eleuien
not be, after all, mero alloti*oj
ditions of purer universiil es.
Whether, to renew the specula
the alchemists, the metals may
so many mutations of each ot
the power of science naturally c
ible? There was a time wb
fundamental doctrine of the ale
was opposed to know^n analoj
is now no longer opposed to tl
only S'jtn': stages beyond their
development."*

Is it safe to trust to what f
sidered to be iudicatious of f
truth in a contest with moml e
when the limits of physical knc
are so floating and ill defined ?
safe to erect barriei*s of si
physical laws against the e
of conviction regarding the tJ

• F*rAday'« Lectorct, pp. 105, 10(

Pk^cal Science and Christian Revelation,

387

Wvelation. when recent discovery has

^^ablisbed so much that tells on the

^de of faith ; when it has overturned

^ manj old philosophical objections

^ it ^ when future discovery may,

^d seems likely to push the advan-

toge of revelation still further into the

domain of matter ; when its indications

lave so many analogies to the doc-

rioes 0. revealed truth? We are

ore, at least, that future discovery

in txi^Le from us no advantage which

e a.t: present derive from our know-

^get^ of physical laws ; it cannot fail

idel^y to extend that advantage, by

ila»"2S^'^o ^^^ acquaintance with the

WB of nature.

^-* The natural termination of our
flees Colons is the consideration of how
lorfc ct way we yet see into the con-
itut ion of Nature ; how far we are
ill "tV^m reaching the secrets of her
a»^ c^perations. " After all, what do
'6 8^^^?*» asks Admiral Smyth, in his
^^ of Celestial O^'ects. "Both that
roncl^ijful ^stellar and nebular) uni-
rei«et, our own, and all which optical
issisto^nce has revealed to us, may be
>nly tlie outlines of a clu&ter immense-
ly more numerous. The millions of
suns '^e perceive cannot comprise the
Creaioi's universe. There are no
bounds to infim'tude ; and the boldest
views of the elder Herschel only plac-
ed us as commanding a ken whose
T&£ua is some 35,000 times longer than
ttie distance of Sirius from us. Well
mif^t the dying Laplace exclaim,
' That which we know, is little ; that .
which we know not, is immense.' "*
If* on the one hand, the discoveries of
man in every department of material
knowledge prove him to be in genius
and intelligence only ** a little lower
than the angels," the boundless ex-
pwwe of tmdiscoyered worlds of inves-
"g*tion in his own and distant systems
°**y Well abate his enthusiasm, and
™J*ethe greatest philosopher acknow-

*®°8® that we as yet know only in
part.

^ ^ partial knowledge of the laws

L *^ol.tLB«dlbrdGatalogae,p.80a.

of divine government can never be a
safe or a philosophical guide to direct
us in accepting or rejecting whatever
comes to us ckiiming to be from the
author and sustainer of that govern-
ment, as revelation does. It can never
be safe even as a preliminary guide ;
as an ultimate rule to test the value
of revelation, it is totally disqualified.
Till we know all, we can say nothing
of what is possible or impossible, prob*
,able or the reverse. We can under-
stand a person to whom the claims
of revelation on his assent were new
and strange, hesitating to accept it at
all, till its credentials had been exam-
ined, and their evidence ascertained ;
but once that process is concluded, and
a revelation established, we cannot
understand a philosophical mind, in
the elementary state of human know-
ledge, proceeding to select from the
sum of revealed truth what seems to
it intelligible, and accepting that, while
rejecting whatever it considers to be
the reverse ; and maintaining that, be-
cause it cannot comprehend the mys-
terious things of revelation, therefore
they cannot be from Grod. The only
course, at once safe and philosophical,
is to accept the whole of what is pre-
sented to us, without questioning its
coincidence, or otherwise, with our
previous views of what is likely or
befitting ; with our present notions of
what is intelligible. To our limited
knowledge it may seem in its doc-
trines unintelligible, imperfect, perhaps
even contradictory : clouds of doubts
may seem to hover over it ; storms of
conflicting principles and laws and
assumption.^, subvei^sive, as we think,
of the course of nature, may now rage
about its path. But ascend the moun-
tain-top, and the clouds arc leflfar be-
neath ; the roaring of the storm cannot
be heard so high. Descend a little
way into the deep, and the agitation of
its surface ceases; silence and order
and everlasting rest are established
there. So the deeper we penetrate into
the knowledge of God, as manifested in
bis material government, or the higher
we ascend in contemplating l^is miodes

S88

The VirgifCi OnuBe Hpim.

of action in nature, the nearer we
shall approach to the vision of that
perfect harmonj and nice adjustment
of every part of his vast creation, the
full disclosure of which will recreate our
intelligence in the light of his eternal
beauty. It cannot be matter for won-
der, then, that we rejoice at every new
step in science, at every discovery of
the secret powers of nature. We wel-
come the advance of physical science
as a pioneer of the ultimately victori-
ous progress of revealed truth, which
shall demonstrate its intimate harmony
with all that is known of the divine
operations in the constitution of nature.
Meanwhile, we can affoi^d to wait
" till the day breaks and the shadows
flee away." The veil will one day be
withdrawn, and we shall see, eye to
eye. Influences and agencies which
it has not yet been given to man
even to imagine, will then be disclosed,
around us and within us ; as when the
eyes of the prophet's . servant were
opened, and he beheld his master
surrounded with chariots of Are and

horses of fire. Things will thgn be
seen as they are, in the day of the
manifestation of the sons of God. We
can afford to wait for that day. Wo
feel within us, already, much that we
cannot account for, on natural |)rin-
ciples ; strong presentiments, and in-
stincts of the supernatural and eternal
order of things, are ever and ever
crossing our path, stirring us with
strange and sudden and mysterious
power; disposing us for the revela-
tions of the final day. A day of won-
der ; a day of benediction ; but not for
those who have refused to believe
because they could not see, bat for
Christ's simple little ones, who were
content to believe before, or without
seeing ; for whom it was enough that
the great Cretitor had spoken to them
by his Son, and since by his church ;
more than enough, that, even here,
they could recognize the subservience
of philosophy to faith ; that theycoald
perceive ^ in outward and visible
things the type and evidence of thoae
within the veil."

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN.

Oopled firom a print of the Blessed Virgin in a Catholic Village in Gkrmanjr. Tranilafd I
ax. Coleridge.

DoRMi, Jesu I mater rtdet
Quie tam dulcem somnam videt^

Dormi, Jesu ! blandule I
Si non dermis, mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat,

Blande, veni, somnule.

Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee smiling ;

Sleep, my darling, tenderly I
If thou sleep not, mother moumeth.
Singing as her wheel she tumeth ;

(>>me, soft slumber, balmily I

Ckliie Jntholo^ and Po^ Benmm*

889

CELTIC ANTHOLOGY AND POETIC REMAINS.

Thebe is no people, the annals of
which may not be separated into three
distinct periods, namely : the period of
heroes and epico-poetic narration ; the
period of myth, fable, and apotheosis ;
and the period of realistic and defini-:
tive history. Or, to range the whole
in the order of historical sequence,
the three distinctive phases of race-
annals may be formulated as fol-
lows:

1. The period of myth and apoth-
eosis — which, among the European
^^cea especially, constitutes the be-
ginning of history.

2. The period of heroes and poetie
^nals — which forms a kind of transi-
fea period.

3. The period of realistic definitive
iisCory, untinted with imaginative
glories — ^the beginning of which in-
dic:::skte8 the point in race-history at
wt kic h literary civilization commences.
To the analysis of the first we ap-
ply the term mythology ; but for the
secrond it happens that there is no
tenn — ^unless we may be permitted so
^ deepen the sense of the word an-
''J?^^*^ as to include within its sweep
* ?; ^^finition, not only poetic extracts,
•^^ IH3etic material and the logical
*°*(rsis of that material For the
P'^po^es of this paper, therefore, the
^^^^ "%vill be used in the sense- sug-
^{^^^ M including the poetic mate-
^ ^^ a people, and the discussion of
.' ^^^^^thoLjffical idiosyncrasies there-
"■^X^ifested.

^^^-J^s use of the word being permit-

^t happens that, however intri-

^ ^. ^^d various in details, the es-

1 ^*^-l data of anthology are every-

^^^"^^ the same in classification, and

^^^V^'^bere susceptible of the same

^^^^1 analysis. Without here paus-

ing to specify reasons, which may be
more conveniently specified hereafter —
this division intp classes of data^ need-
ful because as yet no logicalization
has been here attempted, may be
"^effected with tolerable precision by
recurring to the usual analysis of a
people^s poetic material. The anal-
ysis of these data — anthological be-
cause imaginative and poetic — ^may,
therefore, be exhibited thus :

1. Mythology and seini-hbtorical
or moraUstic fable.

2. Poetic annals and ancient waifs
of ballad and song.

3. HousehoM legends, fairy stories,
and superstitions.

In the region of mythology the data
have been collected and collated with
considerable thoroughness, especially
by German savans ; in the region of
poetic annals, only the general details
have been subjected to analytic scru-
tiny ; and in that of household lore
and legend, saving the collection of
the Brothers Grimm, little has been
effected in comparison with the im-
portance of the subject. Enough
has been done, howevei*, to demon-
strate, not only the applicability of the
fore-made classification, but also the
singular analogical resemblance in
minute details which exists between
the household legends of any one peo-
ple as compared with those of any
other, and which, in analogy at least,
points to the original historical unity
of the human race.

Nor is the analogy which bespeaks
this unity to be limited to the general
analysis of class. Amid the vagaries •
of mythology and apotheosis, amid
the epic-annals of heroes and demi-
gods, and, in short, amid the more
minute imagmings and superstitions.

890

OeiHe Anthology and Poetic Semaint.

of every people may be traced curi-
ous and often startlingly singular ana-
logical resemblances.

The Edda, weird, Northern and
Gothic in the ensemble of its imagin-
ings, reproduces, otherwise nomencla-
ted, the mythology of the Greek and
of the Roman; the dim bat-winged
Athor of mystical Egypt, who pre-
sided under the shadows of the pyra-
mids over the creation of beauty, re-
appears, less mystically aureola'd^ in
the classical mythos of Venus; and
the ghoul of the desert-inhabiting Sara-
cen — most Arabic of all Arabs —
haunts the woodlands and waste-
places of Grermany, as illusive and
wine-dispensing Elle-maid; in short,
in all forms of superstition and in all
moods of anthology there is an essen-
tial unity — a unity having its root in
the general unity of the human im-
agination. For, the imagination, how-
ever through the operation of local
causes its dreams may be tipped with
rainbow-tints or imbued with shadowy
sublimity — is one in the ever-varying
rhythm of its creations, and one in the
vague palaces of fantasy which it up-
rears. Valleys and palaces of ideal
loveliness it may evoke — visions to
which Poe weds expression in the
weird imagery of his Haunted
Palace:

*' And travellers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
SpiritH moving muHically
To a lute's well-tunud law ;"

Or, again, valleys and palaces of luna-
tic ghastlincss andsu|>erstition — vision-
ary lunacies, which Poe graphically,
though somewhat metaphorically, de-
picts in his own modification of the
above rhythm-painting :

" And tnivellers now within that valley.
Through the red-lltUrn windows, see
Vast forms thut move fantastically
To a discordant melody."

But, whether the music be discord-
ant or well-tuned, the humanity of its
note cannot be mistaken ; and whether
•the creations of the human intellect be
palaces of loveliness or pa;»odas of
ghastlincss, they still bear the uumis-
'takable impress of man's toiling after

the ideal — of the vague, restlef
unsatisfied yearning for the los
of his being, to compass wbi
toils and struggles and dream
this essential unity of human
ination is grounded' the essentia
of the data of anthology, and
its marvellous and minute ana
resemblances.

Anthology having never be
dueed to definitive system, it li]
that no little of its critical m
exists only in lumbering and
lated masses. Indeed, not a lit
that which might have been vu
as material has been permitted
in mildewed manuscript — for
of appreciation of its real val
the part of scholars — ^instead o
ing been (as it should have
tn^asured and preserved, as the
lum of thought and science ; ai
more remains uncollected, and \
remain until a more valid comp
sion of its value shall have bei
pressed upon the minds of spoc
professors who are usually the
comprehend that in the compreh
of which they ought to be first,
notwithstanding this apparent i
and neglect on the part of the le
thei-e are, still, certain problei
history which can only be unr
with this key — ^that of comps
anthology — as, for instance, tt
ploits of Joan d'Arc ; a hundre
dies of mental philosophy thei
which can not be unravelled ^
it.; and, in every language,
tudcs of words are based, as to
peculiar shades of significance,
anthological criticism. Thui
nightmare is the demon which i
the night; the Huguenots were
of the woods — from Hugony the i
of the woodland-;— tan d not as a
ed dean supposes the people eid
sen ; and a seer is simply a
that is, one 'who has the gift c
second sight.

A minute knowledge of anthol
we here use the term to denot«
blossoming of events and moral
into imaginative forms, which (

Celtic Anthology and Poetic Bemains.

891

8t of that wliicb we denomi-

poetic material of a people,

ifore, in the highest degree

Y to the proper comprehen-

storical criticism,
mparative philology,
ntal philosophy — especially
[Doods of mind of which mod-
lization furnishes no exam-

ke a familiar illustration. It
over and over demonstrated
ess we deny the validity of
mon principles of historical
, to admit the existence of
culiar imaginative faculty
ited " second sight *' is a
. Nor is the faculty, if its
J he admitted, necessarily to
inted a preternatural gift —
Q[)Iy the logical result of the
m of certain impulses of hu-
?Ilect seldom, in the experi-
modern society, evoked into
being, in fact, the logical de-
of that scenery which sur-
the Highbinders of Scotland,
bat mood of mind which was
mailing habit. CiviUzation de-

> sublimity of mental strength,
the region of reason. Mor-

nity is not developed by
on with streets and avenues,
is imaginative insiglit — that
I ultimate deduction, is in;
— an inhabiter of palaces,
crags, of' mountains, and of
and ghastly grandeur of the
-the imaginative insight is
ning of the mind, and like
ling at midnight reveals that
the moon and stars is wrap-
irkness. To educe the prin-
he imaginative forms (an-
into wliicb primitive moral
ide reasonings, and epic-
ossom, are essentially modi-
vo ever-active causes, name-
yncrasies of race and scenic
Dgs, And henct*, in reduc-
ragmentary imaginings of a

> scientific system, we are
i to keep constantly in view

the idea of answering to the condi-
tions of three problems :

1. Given the scenery of a country
and the idiosyncrasies of ite people,
and we may, in a general way, in-
dicate its anthology ; or

2. Given the anthology and idio-
syncrasies, and we may, with tolerable
accuracy, indicate the leading peculiar-
ities of the scenery ; or

3. Given the scenery and anthology,
and we may indicate, with exactitude,
the leading idiosyncrasies of the peo-
ple.

Having indicated, by way of pre-
face, the general scope of anthology
and the value of its datct^ we shall de-
vote the remaining portion of this pa-
per to the anthological relics of the
Irish race, and especially to its elfin
and poetic phases.

Fairies are (among the Irish peas-
antry) still believed to exist, and to
exercise no little influence over the af-
fairs of mortals. They are generally
represented as pigmies, and are, so
runs the superstition, oflen seen dan-
cing around solitary thorns, which are
believed to be among their most fre-
quented haunts. Hence the veneration
of the peasantry for old solitary thorns
— the peasantry believing that if these
thorns are cut down or maimed, the
fairies are thereby provoked, and will
either maim the |)erson who has cut
the tree, cause his ciittle to sicken and
die, or otherwise injure his property.
Places supposed to be haunted by
fairies are termed gentle, as likewise
are several herbs, in gathering which
a strange ritual is observed. If pro-
voked by any person, it is believed that
the fairies will steal and carry away
that which is dearest to that person, as
his wife, or especially any members
of his family in babyhood and before
baptism. The castles in which the
fairies dwelt were generally believed
to be movable at the pleasure of the
proprietor, invisible to human eyes,
and usually built in ancient forths or
niths. Among the principal fairy
kings were Firwar, whose castle was
at Knock Magba, and Macaneantan,

CMc Anthology and Poetic Semtdtu.

whose fairy palace was at Sgraba.
Whistling Hill (Knock-na-feadalea), in
the county of Down, is still visited by
hundreds of the peasantry, who, espe-
cially on the last night in October,
which is observed with singular cere-
monials, aver that they can hear the
music of the fairies issuing from the
hill. The following verses include the
names of the principal places fabled to
be inhabited by fairy kings :

" Aronnd Knock-Grein, and Knoek-na-Rae,
Bin Builvia, and Keii Korain,
To Bin Bakhlan and Lokh Da-ean,
And thence north-east to Slelve Gullin.
They trod the lofty hills of M ogama.
Round Slelve Denard and Beal-at-an-draigh.
Duwn to Daudrln, Dund^o^u^ and Donardalay,
Right forward to Knock-na-Feadalea."

Which was the route of procession on
the night of the last of October, when
aerial spirits were supposed to be pecu-
liarly active. The following legend
of Whistling Hill we extract from a
collection of these legends in the ori-
ginal Irish made by Rev. William
Neilson, D.D., and printed by Hogan,
No. 15 Lower Oimond Quay, Dublin,
in f 808:

" There was au honest, pious man,
who lived formerly near the river, by
the side of the hill (Whistling Hill) ;
and the vestiges of his house may
yet be seen. His name was Tiiady
Hughes ; and he had neither wife nor
family — -his mother, an aged woman,
keeping his house.

" Thady went out on a Hallow- eve
night to pray, as he was in the habit
of doing, on the bank of the river ; and
looking up to observe the stars, he saw
a dusky cloud from the south moving
toward him as if impelled by a whirl-
wind, and heard the sound of horses
just as if a troop of cavalry were
tramping along the valley. Thady
noticed that they all came over the
ford and round the mountain.

" liemembering that he had often
heard it said, * if you ca3t the dust un-
der your feet against the cloud, if the
fairies have any human being with
them they are compelled to release
him,' Thady seized a handful of the
gravel which was under liis feet and
hurled it, in the name of the Father,

Son, and Holy Ghost,
whirlwind: whereupon
strange lady, weak, faint
moaning.

'* Thady started, but, L
the voice of the strange k
was human, went to the s
fell, spoke to her, and U>
arms and carried her u
who gave her food — the
but little.

" They asked her few <
night, knowing that i>h<
the fairy castles. Besi
peared to be sick and s<
did not seem to be in c
talking. The next morni
she related her story, hn
joined secrecy, which T
mother promised.

" The strange lady's na
Rourke, and she liad foni
the county of Gralway, w
married to a young man
Joyce, who lived hard by B
One year after her m
Joyce, King Fir war and
ried her away to the fa
Knock Magha, leaving
the form of a dead woman
which bulk was duly wa
ried.

" She had been in Ki
nearly a year and was
tained with dances and so
standing she was in sorn
been parted from her h
length tlie host of the cj
that her husband had mai
woman ; that, therefore, s
indulge in grief no long
Firwar and his family w
visit the province of Ul
tended to take her with tl
set out at dawn from K
forth, both Firwar and h
many a fairy castle they
dawn till fall of night, t
mounted on beautiful wir

" After they lost Mar
did not halt; for they y^
that Hallow-eve in the fa
Sgraba, with the fairy
neantan."

OelUc Anthology and Poetic JRemams.

898

story adds that Thady
s married 3iary Bourke, and

difficalty subsequently arose
n Thady and John Joyce, who,

beard of the escape of the
\ lady from the faiijes, went to
s cottage and claimed her as his
The matter afterward came be-
e bishop for adjudication, who
ed that as Mary had, to all ap-
ces, died and been burled as the

John Joyce, she was under no
ion to be bis wife after her death,
lus ends the legend,
general similarity of the faines
Mcted in this legend to those
rmany as illustrated in Groethe's
Qng, is obvious, and seems to
either bbtorical kin or identity
in. In Goethe's ballad a corpse
in the arms of the father. The
D subjoined is an anonymous
oper version, but is so far supe-
) that of Mrs. Austin, that we
it in preference :

iAekh lo Ute through ibe night wind lone ?
itther with \x\i son.

Ml him fast ; he foldeth him warm ;
lyeth the angels to keep firou him harm.

w, why hide«t thy face so shy ?'
thoa not, father, the Krl King nigh ?

frien King with his train, I wlat ?'
">. It b only the fog and mist'

'. beaatiful one, come away with me,
ncrry plays will I play with thee !

K>]r tre the blossoms that blow by the shore,
■DJ mother hath many a plaything in store.'

't^, my father, and dont thou nut hear
' ^ Erlen King doth say in my ear ?'

my darling, be still, my son,

the withered leave:! the winds howl lone/

i&'

N beaatiful one, come away with me,
**^ten are fair, they sliall wait on thee I

•^ters their nightly revelUngs keep,
*^ ling, they shall dance, they shall rock
*« to sleep.'

j^'tt; my father, and seest tliou not
vl King's danghters In yon wild spot?'

J» my son, I see, I wist,

■^Cray willow down there In the mist.'

'j}«e; thy beaoty dellghteth my sense.
*ulbg or not, shall I carry thee hence.*

^* the Erl King now puts forth his arm !
^1 the Erl King, he doeth me harm !'

*Wrkleth,herldethfast,
"tcr rideth through the blast.

I^vetit wild, through the night wind lone,
i«4, In hU ftrma, ha holdeth his son."

Of this topic — ^the folks-lore of the
Irish peasantry — we shall here take
leave, merely hazarding the opinion
that there is some remote historical
connection between the Irish traditions
of the idiosyncrasies and doings of elves
and those of the Germanic races — a
connection probably dating from the
Danish occupation of the country about
the seventh or eighth century. In the
Irish poetic annals,' which antedate the
Danish occupation by several hundred
years, no traces of elfin traditions can
be detected ; and the same is true of
the Ossianic ballads which McPherson
has rather imperfectly collated, and
between which and the several Celtic
manuscripts there is a singular resem-
blance.

The collation of McPherson, valua-
ble in many respects, is amenable to
almost fatal criticism, in that the sub-
limity of the Graelic composition is
marred by being twisted from the
parallelism (which, in the original, is
analogous to the Hebraic) into the form
of prose : the parallelism being in Eng-
lish — as in Graelic, Celtic, and Hebrew
— the most effective form into which
sublimity can be wrought. And to de-
monstrate the truth of this proposition
we need only to put portions of Mc-
Pherson 's prose version into the paral-
lelistic form, and shall adopt for this
purpose Fingal's interview with the
spirit of Ixxla, than which, unique-
ly considered, a poem of more over-
whelming sublimity was never written
or conceived. Subjoined is McPher-
son's version •

^* A bla.<)t came from the mountain : on Ha
wings was the spirit of Loda. lie came
to his place in his terrors, and shook bis
dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in
his dark face : his voice is like distant thun-
der. Fingol advanced his spear in night,
and raise his voice on high. * Son of night
retire : call thy winds, and fly ! Why do«t
thou come to my presence with thy shadowy'
arms ? Shall I fear thy gloomy form, spirit
of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of
clouds ; feeble is that meteor thy sword !
The blast rolls them together; and thou thy-
self art lost. Fly from my presence, son of
night ! call thy winds and fly !'

** * Dost thou force me from my place V re-
plied the hoUow voice. * I turn the battle in

894

(Miie Anthology and Poetic Semanul

tho field of the brave. I look on the nations,
and they vaDish : my nostrila pour the blast
of death. I come abroad ou the winds ; the
tempests are before my face. But my dwell-
ing is calm above the clouds ; pleasant are
the fields of my rest.*

" *■ Dwell ill thy pleasant fields,' says the
king. * Let Comhars son be forgotten. Have
my steps ascended from my hills into thy
peaceful plains? Have I met thee with a
spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda ?
Why then dost thou frown on me ? Why
shako thine airy sphere? Thou frownest
in vain : I never fled from the mighty in war;
and shall the sons of the wind Irigbten the
king of Morvcn ? No — he knows the weak-
ness of their arms.*

*♦ * Fly to thy land/ replied the form ; * take
to the wind, and fly I The blasts are in the
hollow of my hand : the course of the storm
is mine. ¥\y to thy land, son of Gomhal, or
feel my flaming wrath I'

" He lifted high his shadowy spear I ho
bent forward his dreadful height. Fiugal,
advancing, drew his sword, the blade of dark-
brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel
wind* through the gloomy ghost The form
fell shapeless into air."

Now, let us put this in the form of
the parallelism — a form into which
the sententious sublunitj of the com-
position naturally falls,. and in which
nearly all these ancient Gaiilic and
Celtic epics occur in the original :

" A blast came from the mount:iln :
On its winga wag the spirit of Loda.
lie came to liis place in terror:),
And shook M» diiRky spear.
His eyes appear like flame in his du»ky face :
His voice is like fiiiitant thunder.
Fingal advanced his spear into the night,
And raised his voice on high.

• Son of night, retire ;
Call thy winds, and fly !

Why dost thou come to my presence vrlth Uiy shad-
owy arms 7
Shall I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of Loda ?
Weak U thy shield of clouds ;
Feeble is that meteor, thy sword.
The blast rolls them to;;ether :
And thou thyjiolf art lost.
Jfly from my pre.-ience, son of night 1
Call thy winds, and fly !'

• Dost thou force me from my place?' replied the

hollow voice.

• I turn the battle In the field of the brave,
I look on the nations and they v:inish :

In my noptriU Is the blast of death.

I cnm<.* abroad on the winds :

The tompesUx are before my face,

But my dwelling Is culm above the clouds ;

Pleawint are my fleld;* of rent.'

' Dwell In thy pleasant fields,' said the king.

' liCt Comhal's sdn \ye forgotten.

Have my stops a:ioended from my hilli into thy

peaceful phiins ?
Have I met thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit

of thedUnial Lo^laY
Why d(»i<tthnu frown on me?
Why shake thy dusky spear ?
Tlum frownest In vain ;
I never fletl from the mightv in war ;
And Hliall the tons of the wind frighten the king of

Morven ?

He knows the weakneM of thetr Anns.'

* Fly to thy land,' replied the shadow ;

* Take to the wind, and fly !

The blaata are in tlie hollow (if my hand .

The course of the stonirts mine.

Fly to thy land, e<Hi of O'lmhal,

Or feel my flaming wrath !'

He lifted high his shadowy apear :

He bent forward his diaiDal height

Fingal, advancing, jlrew his sword, the

the dark-brown Luno.
The gleaming path of stctH wlnda tbi

gloomy gboflC
The form fell shi^ieleas In air."

For vague subliinitj, for
dismal, ghastly, and phantasc
grandeur of conce[»tion and eflF
imagery of the above episode
sian has never been exceeded
vast domain of fantasy-weavin
this effect is vastly heightened
sententious step of the sentenc
the shadowy cadence of tlie pan
— a cadence which is the natu
prqssion of sublimity, and to c<
which in ordinary blank verse
possible. Compare, for instar
following imager}' of similar en
from IVIilton's " Paradise Lost"

" O'er many a tlark and dreary va
They passed, and many a rejrion d«>lnroas ;
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp ;
Rocks, caves, lak(», fcnst, bogs, dens and t

death—
A universe of death."

Or the following rhythmical
ing of more than Mihoni<* mas*i
and magnificence of imaginati(»i
the ** Orion'' of K II. Horne— a
of more idiosyncratio merit thai
poems upon the classical model,
thus describes the building of a
for Hephaistos (Vulcan) :

" So that great flpures stMrted from tlie roof.
And lofty colgnes, or Mt and downward ga
On those who !»t'>od below and f;.tZfl ulftu
I filled It ; In the Cf ntre fraui.Mi a hall :
Central In that a throne : and for theliirht
Forjretl mkhty hammers that should rise
On slant«d rocks of granite and of flint.
Worked by a torrent, for wh<>«« passage doi
A p»pe I hewed. And here the god could I
Midst showery s|mrk.s and swathed of broa>I
His lone repo^. lulletl by the sounds he lot
Or, casting l>ack the hammer-heads until ti

ped
The wati-pi' ebb, enj<»y. If so he.willeJ.
Midnight tremendous, silence, and iron lie*

Both of which, though in theii
ner unparalleled, arc, in a less d
imbued with that which we maj

rOETlC ILLUMINATION ; that

constitutes the felicitous sublim
Ossian ; in short, that for whicl
one simile, and that an impossib

Odiie AiUhology and Fdeiic Renudns,

895

[le shooting of a sun
heavens at midnight —

•easons here specified be-
sufiicient — if farther rea-
jsary for the adoption of
ic form in treating the an-
and Celtic compositions,
ry reasons are fluent from
►rm of those compositions,
I fact that the parallelism
etic form adapted to their
may be demonstrated by
16 rhythmical collocation
oem, the Songs of Dear-
c poem in manuscript
>rm the basis of the re-
tiis paper, with the coUo-
parallclistic English ren-
»pting phonographic equi-
ne Irish letters, the initial
^ardra's song improvised
to Scotland, runs as fol-

'n lioni an tio ud tthoin^
ona h ionghantuio ;
tUtw/uinn ainde de,
dtio^fuinn re Noise."

irallelistic rendering, line
allows :

me that eastern shore ;
Alban, land of delights.
roold I have forsaken It,
lot come with Naesa ;

translation is rendered
ing not only the matter
manner of tiie original —
h last any translation is

defective. The song is
id:

mfiLj and Dunfln,

re the hills aiouud them ;

wlrayon,

i me DunsaivnL

ireet Collcuan !
U and where Ardan earner
Md my days with Naesa,
em vales of Alban.

Qlenlee !

thickets have I slept,
t thy thickets feasted,
ive in Qlenlee.

a, Glenraessan !
thy herbs and bright thy greens,
he Calling stream we slept,
banks in Glenmessan.

tright Glenelkh I
dwelling first was fixed,
•mile when the rising sun
ov arrows on Qleneikh.

" Olenarkhon, dear Olenarkhon I
Fair is the vale below high Dromkhon.
Sportive were my days with Naesa,
Ip the blooming vales of Olenarkhon.

•' Glendarua, O Glendaraa !
To me were thy people dear.
The blrdd sang sweetly on the bending boughs
That shaded over Glendarua.

'* Dear to me Is that spreading shore ;
Dear the sandy-margined streams.
Never would I have forsaken them,
Had I not come with Naesa."

The events celebrated in these man-
uscript songs, now mustily rusting in
the Dublin University collection, oc-
curred during the first century, A, C.
Deardra was the daughter of Macdoil,
the historian of Ulla (Ulster) ; Con-
covar being at that time king. The
plot may be briefiy described :

1. At the birth of Deardra it is
foretold that she shall be the cause of
many calamities ; but the king, unap-
palled by omens and predictions, causes
her to be taken from Macdoil and
reared under persons whom he ap-
points ; proposing to make her queen
of Ulla.

2. The beautiful Deardra conceives
a paf^ion for Naesa, one of the sons of
Usna ; and, with the assistance of his
brotliers, Ainli and Ardon, elopes with
him to Alban, (Scotland,) in the west-
em part of which Naesa has large
estates.

3. A messenger arrives from Con-
covar conveying the king's solicitation
that they return to Ulla, and bearing
tokens of tlie king's forgivenness to
Naesa and Deardra.

4. Disregarding the forebodings of
Deardra, the sons of Usna accept the
king's liospitality ; and on the voyage
Deardra sings the pathetic farewell to
Alban just quoted, as if foreboding the
events which follow.

5. As the vessel moors in the haven
Deardra ceases to sing ; but, still fore-
boding ruin to Naesa, advises him
to place himself under the protection
of Cuculiin, who has his residence at
Dundaljran. Naesa's confidence in the
honor of Concovar, however, prevails ;
and they proceed to Emana, the royal
scat — Deardra foretelling their fate
both in conversation and in frequent
prophetic song.

396

OelHe Anthology and JPoiHe Bemmm.

6. They are received Jby Coocovar
with the semblance of Idndoess, and
placed in the castle of the Bed Arm
with guards to wait upon them ; while
a body of mercenaries are s^nt to res-
cue Deardra and burn the castle — the
rK>ops of Ulla having refused to im-
brue their hands in the blood of the
heroes.

7. Naesa, Ainli, and Ardan effect
their escape with Deardra; but, be-
ing pursued, are overwhelmed by the
king's mercenaries and slain. Deardra
sings the following lament, calling to
mind every circumstance which en-
deared her to Naesa, and reflecting
with self-tormenting ingenuity upon
those transient interruptions which, oc-
casioning uneasiness at the moment,
now serve to aggravate her unavailing
sorrow :

** Farewell for ever, fair coasts of Alban ;
, Your bays and vales shall no more delight mc.

There oft fk-om hllla with Utiiia*s sons,

I viewed the hunt below.

** The lords of Alban met in l>anquet.
There were the valiant son« of Usna :
And Naesa gave a secret kins
To the fairest daughter of Dundron.

** He sent her a bind from the hill,
And a fawn beside it running ;
He left the hosts of Inverness,
And turned aside to her paUicc.

*' My soul was drunk with madness
When this they told me— told me
I set my boat upon the sea,
To sail away from Naesa.

" Alnli and Ardan brave and faithful.
Valiantly pursued me>
And brought me bark again to land,
And back again to Naesa.

^ Then Naesa swore an oath to me ;
And thrice he swore ufMn his arms.
That never would he cause nie i>ain.
Until unto the grave tliey bore him.

" The maid of Dundron swore an oath ;
Thrice swore the maid of Dundron,
That long ss Naesa dwelt on earth
No lover else should claim her.

'* Ah, did she hfur this night.
That Naesa in his grave was laid,
High would he her voice of wailing,
But seven times liercer shall be mine."

8. Standing by the grave of Naesa,
Deardra concludes her lamentations
with the following funeral song and
panegyric, which having: sung, she
springs into the grave and falls dead
upon liis breast :

" Ixing is the day to me : the sons of Usna are gone.
Their converse was sweet ;
But as raindrops fall my tears.
They were as the Uona on the hills of Emuuu

** To the damsels of Breaton w«rc the
As hawks from th« mooataia ibiif
The hn.rt knelt before theoa.
And nobles did them honor.

** Never did ttiey yield In battle.
Ah ! woe is me that they are goaa
Sons of the danchter of Gaifi^
A host were ye m the wars of Cnlni

" By careftil Alfa were they reared.
The countries round paid them tiU«
Bursting like a flood la battle.
Fought the vaUant youths of Sptha

" Uatha taught them In thehr yoath.
The heroes were valiant lo flgfat
Renowed sons of Usna,
I weep, for ye liave left me.

*• Dark-brown were their eyebrows;
Their eyes were fires beneath ;
And their faces were as cmb e is
As embers ruddy with flame.

*' Their legs as the down of the sws»—
Light and active were their limbs;
Soft and gentle were thdr hands,
And their arms were fair and maaly.

<* King of Ulla, king of Ulla !
I left thy love for Naesa.
My days are few after him.
His Aineral honors are song.

** Not long shall I survive my love;
Think not- so king of Ulla.
Naesa, Alnll, and Ardan,
I desire not life when you are gtea

"Life hath no Joy.
My days are already too many.
Delight of my soul,
A shower of tears shall fall upon yov

** Te men that dig their grave.
Dig it wide and dig it deep.
I will rest on the breast of my love
My sighs shall resound from his toab

** Oft were their shields their pillow,
And oft they slept upon their spean :
Lay their strong swords beside tbea.
And their shields beneath theh- fa '

" Their dogs and hawks,—
Who will now attend Uiem ?
The hunters are no more on the hlUs ;
The valiant youths uf Connal CaimL

" My heart, It groans— It groans.
When I see the colhtrs of their hoondi
Oft cMd I feed them.
But I weep when they are near.

" We were alone In the waste.
We were alone In the wfwilaads ;
But I knew no loneliiieM,
Till they dug thy grave.

'' My sight begins to fail.
When I view thy grave, my Naesa.
My soul hastes to depart :
And my voice of wailing to be hushed

Tims ends one of the roost
ically beautiful tales, Jbunda
original history, which theepioi
annals of any people afford. 1
superior to any single poem ii
Svethico-Grothic remains reodc
mous by the masterly trjnskt
Longfellow. In fiict, to himwl

* Quare tnsHs eo anima Meoy et qwzr& eonturbas Me f^

897

mblDe the requiftite antho«
ming with the requisite
translator, no literary G«)l-
e prolific in the rubies and
glories of poesy, could he
xcept with the Aladdin-key
ngelic invention, than is af-
the mouldering, mildewed,

masses of manuscript, in
c letters, wjiic'h have been
3 rot for ages in the library
Jniversity. Had they been
ey would have been maga-

vaunted as masterpieces
int pages of " Blackwood,"
e dreary serroonoids of the
ster." Being Celtic, they
ig, neglected.

dere arc to be Longfellows
sons hereafler who shall be
in, and neither exclusively

English, exclusively American, nor
exclisively Japanese; and men of
learning there are to be hereafter, who
shall be citizens of the world (in a
literary sense J, and not especially cit-
izens of England, or of France, or of
America, who will seek for the beau-
tiful in strange places beyond the nar-
row limits of London, Paris, or New-
York.

Meantime, it has been the object of
this paper to play the lamp to the
gem- seeking Aladdin — sugsresting that
something may be done, rather than
doing it. Hence what has been said
and what might have been more clev-
9rly and elaborately said, has here
been curtly said upon the subject of
Celtic anthology — using the term in a
sense that suited the purposes and
scope of this paper.

TRISTIS ES ANIMA MEA, ET QDARB CON-
TDRBAS ME ?"

Why, O my soul ! art thou, ofttimes,

So faint and sad ?

Life shows to thee its brightest side ;

Why not be glad ?

Is not the earth most beautiful,

What wouldst have more 1
Filled is thy cup with life's best gifU

And running o'er.

And all the grandeur and the grace

Of noble art —
Do they not beautify thy life,

And cheer thy heart r

And love, most heavenly gift of all —

Is it not thine ?
Yes, truly ; yet I cannot say

Content is muie.

I feel a sadness of the soul,

A weariness,
A constant longing of the heart ;

What meaneth this ?

398

2X« Lake DweJUnffi.

I know that once, when joaraejing far,

I felt like this,
But then they only called my grief

A home-sicknesd.

And 80, with every gift of Grod,

. With nought amiss,
My heart is longing, longing still ;
What meanedi this ?

Why is it that my soul is sad,

What meaneth this ?
It panteth after thee, O God !

Thou art its bliss.

From the Reader.

THE LAKE DWELLINGS*

Since 1854, when Dr. Keller pub-
lished his first report on pile-dwellings
in Lake Zurich, he, and other Swiss
archaeologists stimulated by his ex-
am j)le and guided by his counsel, have
zealously explored many other Swiss
lakes, and have succeeded in discover-
ing more than two hundred similar
settlements, and in collecting tens of
thousands of relics of the people who
during many centuries occupied them.
Six reports on the " wonderful Pfalil-
bauten " have been published by Dr.
Keller ; but, being written in Ger-
man, they are less known than the
comj)ilation in French by Fred. Tro-
yon, who has absorbed Dr. Keller*s
facts, and. mingling them with fancies
of* his own, has given a sensational
character to his work. Excellent
notices have, however, appeared, writ-
ten by AVylie, Lubbock, Lycll, and
others, and translations of some orig-
inal memoirs have been printed in
the Smithsonian Reports. Stripped
though the subject be, in some degi*ee,

♦ The I-nke Dwolllnjr!* of Swltwrland and other
Parts of KurojK'. Uy l>r. Fenthiaml Keller, Presi-
dent of the Auti«|unrlan Association of Zurich.
Traniilat<Ml and arranfred by John I-Idwurd Lcc.
P.:<.A., F.O.S. (fjoudon : Lonipiiuns.)

of novelty, the present tn
of Dr. Keller's work is not
welcome ; it is indeed right,
who gave the first exposition
structures . should tell the 8
their discovery, and picture f
state of society which their
reveal. In this work we hav<
eral description of the etruc
these dwellings; notices of 1
ous settlements which have I
covered, with an account of o
the Italian side of the Alps,
the Crannoges in Ireland ai
land; chapters on the ren:
plants, by Dr. Heer, and of
by Professor Riitimeter ; and
nine plates and several wood<
graphic, but sometimes rough <
of the dwellings, and of the
objects found in them. As
house of facts, illustrating the
ter and progress of an ancien
this work is invaluable; it
other archaeologists in t1
searches; and wc think, t
the cautious and philosophical
in which Dr. Keller reasons
facts will help to correct son
and fancifiil speculationa.

The Lake DweUinge.

399

le constraction of pile -d well-
Swiss lakes afford favorable
ilong the shores there is gen-
considerable breadth of shal-
p. Some pleasant bay, pro-
well-wooded hills, abounding
was selected for such settle-
ind at a little distance from

piles of various kinds of
inerally entire stems with
k on, but sometimes split,
1 fifteen to thirty feet in
id three to nine inches in

were driven into the bottom
ake, the heads of the piles
»m two to four feet above the
At the Wangen settlement
re 40,000 piles, but all may
J been dHven down at the
•iod. Across this substruc-
r stems of trees ten of twelve

were laid, and fastened by
pegs; and above them split
ere similarly fastened, form-
id, even f)latform, which was
by a bed o% mud or loam,
tform of a few, which Dr.
alls fascine dw^Uings^ was
1 not on piles, but on layers

and small stems built up
I bottom of the lake, being
> some of the Scottish Cran-
rhe boards and planks had
perfectly fitted together, fur
I objects which had slipped
the chinks of the floor are

over the lake bottom ; but
I of broken implements, pot-
animal and vegetable refuse,
ogether on particular spots,
t spaces had been left in the

through which rubbish had
mn into the water, thus form-
6 analogous to tlie kitchen-

of Denmark. Uuts were
OQ the platform, having a
k of piles and stakes, with
or hurdlework of small

woven between the up-
les, and covered over with
MS of from two to three
r loam or clay, evidence of
« been found in pieces of
t day retaimng the impres-

sion of the wattle- work. As some
pieces have a curve, Troyon conclud-
ed that the huts were circular, and
from nine to twelve (eet in diameter ;
but Dr. Keller shows that the curve
had probably been produced by the
great heat to which the clay covering
was exposed before it fell into the
water, while also pieces of different
curves are found promiscuously on
the same spot with others perfectly
flat, no piece indeed exceeding twelve
inches across. It is now pretty cer-
tain that most, if not all the huts,
were rectangular; those at Roben-
hausen and Niederwyl were found to
be twenty-seven feet by twenty-two
feet. They stood close to but apart
from each other, and were thatched
with straw and reeds. From the
almost universal prevalence of clay
weights for weaving, it may be in-
ferred that every one was furnished
with a loom. A narrow platform or
bridge resting on piles, of which a
few remains have been found, con-
nected these dwellings with the land.
Room enough there was in and
around these huts for all the opera-
tions of daily life, as well as for the
manufacture of every implement used
in household economy ; and in short,
this was the place where every craft
or art known to the settlers was
brought into play. Even domestic
animals were stalled on the platform,
as at Robenhausen the remains of
the litter of these animals has been
found.

Such sites for dwellings are not
unknown to history. Hippocrates de-
scribes similar habitations on the stag-
nant, quiet-flowing river Phasis in
Armenia, and Herodotus others on
Lake Prasias in Thrace. The Cran-
noges in Ireland were inhabited as re-
cently as 1645, but rather as places of
refuge ; and at the present time there
are analogous structures in the East-
em Archipelago. Security against the
attack of enemies seems to have been
the chief reason of selecting such pe-
culiar sites for dwellings, at a period
when society waa in a divided statOi

400

Th$ Lake DwOing^

and when war o^ tribe against tribe was
frequent Similar conditions were in-
dicated by the numerous hill-forts of
the ancient Britons, and even by the
pele towers of the border-land in me-
disevai times. From the great labor
bestowed on the pile structures, and
the vast number of instruments of all
kinds found in the " relic bed" of the
lakes, it is clear that they had not been
temporary places of refuge, but perma-
nent habitations, which had been occu-
pied during many generations; and
the relics, scattered abundantly beneath
these pile-dwellings, furnish important
evidence relating to diflferent eras of
civilization.

In a considerable number of these
dwellings — thirty at least — no trace
of metai has been discovered, the in-
struments having been made of stone,
bone, and wood ; in a much larger
number bronze, without a trace of iron,
has been found ; and in a few, it is
clear that iron has been extensively
used. The three ages of stone, bronze,
and iron are here established by better
evidence than from any other groups
of remains ; for the great number and
variety of relics which these lake hab-
itations have yielded, give a broad basis
for true inductive reasoning on pre-
historic conditions. Yet there is evi-
dently no sudden break in these pe-
riods, such as would prove that supe-
rior and conquering races had intro-
duced higher civilization. ** It is very
certain that, at least in Switzer-
land," says Dr. Keller, *• there was no
hard line of demarcation between the
three periods, but that the new materials
were spread abroad like any other ar-
ticle of trade, and that the more useful
tools gradually superseded those of less
value." We have here, therefore, con--
tinuity and progress 'y and it may be
reasonably inferred, that the advance
in art from the use of stone to that of
bronze, and then to iron, was made by
the same race who originally took up
their abode on these lakes ; for during
the long time the pile habitations were
occupied, extending over several thou-
sands of years, there was no essential

change in the stnictore of the
or in the mode of life. Doubt]
these lake-dwellers first ai
Switzerland, they had the {
civilization ; they had dom<
mals from the first, such a
though the flesh of wild ani
more used for food ; they co
weave^ and make cordage fro
vegetable fibre, rude poitery tl
make, some of which was evei
with graphite and rubble ; fis
were, using nets and hooks
bone ; from serpentine, fiic
and bones they made their
and tools ; they had brought i
cereals, and cultivated the
very inefficient instruments
stag's horns and crooked bra
trees, and raised wheat and
which they ground by mills ol
tive form, consisting of a roii
as a corn-crusher, and a meal
with a hollow in which the <
bruised. The stone weapons
plements are similar to those
mark ; but several show in
esting manner how the stonf
chisels, which were small, \
to eight inches in length, wer
Some were first inserted int
of stag's horn, and then set i
or club ; others were inserted i
of branches and fastened by
asphalt During this early a
the roost important of all ins
and was used for various i
fixed at the end of a pole,
lance ; let into wo'id, it was a
or domestic axe ; placed in ho
the poor man's knife ; tt serv*
animals, to cut flesh and h
to make all instruments o
wood.

The evidences of oommer
course with other people are I]
but a bluish gl^iss bead, in a
dwelling on the little reedy <
lake" of Wauwyl, may show i
nection with the Egyptians o
cians; and knives, arrow-hi
other implements, made of :
found in Switzeriaad, bat der
distant parts of Fninoe and i

Tk€ Lat^DweUingi.

401

Biaj indicate a barter trade with the
north and west Possibly, too, Ne-
phrite, of which the most Tsiuable celts
were made, and which does not occur
in Enrope, bat in Egypt, China, and
other parts of Asia, may point to in-
tercourse with the east, unless we sup*
pose the Nephrite implements had been
hroaght from the east by the lake-d well-
en, when they first settled in Switzer-
land.

Not a few of the stone-age dwellings

had *been burnt by accident or by an

enemy, and wore not rebuilt ; but others

lad a continued existence through both

die stone and bronze periods; and

hence we see settlements in a tran-

ntional state, and trace a gradual

idnnce in civilization. At Meilen,

vlicre a vast number of stone relics

We been found, there appear one

biQDxe armilla and one bronze celt ;

Int at Robenhausen we probably see

tbe commencement of the metallurgic

vt,for amid a profusion of stone relics

MoDgmg to three different platforms,

eneibles have been found, with lumps

of melted bronze, and one lump of pure

vmelted copper. It may be that the

U^wellers became first acquainted

^ metal tlirough traders ; but, as

Dr. Keller remarks, ^ May we not

^"Bodire to assume that the colonists,

^ their intercourse with strangers

*fe were acquainted with the nature

tf Mais, were incited to search their

•wntiy for copper ore, and try to melt

>nd caat it? Copper ore is found on

^ loath side of Mttrtschenstock, on

tbe Uke of Wallenstadt" The age

*Ucii was dawning blends itself witii

fc age which was setting ; for we find

ibat tie new instruments of bronze were

oopieiof the old forms in stone. Even

Ae bronie ornaments were but im-

IMvved copies of analogous objects in

hoe^ showing indeed die sameness of

iwem both periods, and the similarity

oTtheir tastes and customs. The grad-

tal introduction of metal gave to the

U»dwellen new powers, which en-

aUed them to improve their condition ;

ArdlingB ware now erected m deeper

; kufBT piles were used, and bet-

VOL. IV. 26

ter sharpened and squared, fastened
with cross beams, and strengthened by
stones heaped up ; pottery was better
made, more elegant in form, and some-
times painted black or red, or orna-
mented with tin-foil plates. The bronze
implements which had been made by
native artisans were of excellent work-
manship and form, especially the spear
and javelin- heads, which prove great
proficiency in casting. The swords
with short handles and curved knives
and armillse resemble those wliich have
been found in Denmark ; but we ob-
serve none of the graceful leaf-shaped
swords which occur in Britain and Ire-
land. Varied, peculiar, and sometimes
beautiful is the pmamentation of the
period, consisting of zigzag lines, points,
triangles, spiral and lozenge forms.

A transitional state there was, too,
between the bronze and the iron pe-
riods. Morgcs settlement on Lake
Geneva may be regarded of tbe bronze
age ; for not only have one hundred
and thirty bronze objects been found
there, but also moulds for casting
bronze winged celts, showing that
such implements had been made on
the spot ; yet here there occurs an
iron poniard. But in the lake-dwell-
ing of Marin, one of the lost occupied,
the number of iron objects is surpris-
ingly great, exhibiting to view weap-
ons, agricultural and domestic imple-
ments, and ornaments made of iron,
which in the older dwellings had been
made of stone or bone or bronze. Of
these iron relics the most remarkable
are the swords, of which fifty and more
have been found at Marin, some with
and others without sheaths, all, with one
exception, of iron, and every one being
peculiarly yet differently ornamented.
These swords are masterpieces of the
smith's art, and were probibly pro-
duced at large manufactories, when
there were division of labor and
every practical appliance, for some of
them bear upon them makers' marks.
They are, however, the product of
Celtic art, and correspond in form and
omamentatioD with those of the later
Celtic period of noithem nations; and

Tk$ LabeDw§ttmgi.

tills Tiew is confirmed by the disooverj
of similar swords in the ditches of the
fortress of Alesia, where a conflict Lad
taken place between the Romans and
Helvetians when it was besieged bj
OflBsar. Less striking to the eye, how-
CTcr, is the connection between the pro-
ductions of the bronze and of the iron
age; bat oo^ author remarks:

*' There are, indeed, some formi of imple-
meiitf wbidi remind vm of the prerioas age.
Bat, on the wkole, when the Marin objects
were made, iron had taken full pofleesaion of
the field, and all the implements, includiDg
ornaments, which oould be made out of iron,
a metal both firmer and more pliable, were
roanufactared out of this material But the
form of these specimens had in some meas-
ure undergone a change, for (be worlcing of
iron is a totally diflferent matter from that of
bronxe ; and the hammer of the smith and
the moulds of the founder cannot produce the
same forms. The remains of the settlements
of pure stone, bronze, and iron ages indi-
cate, therefore, epochs of civilization among
the inhabitants, separated bj long intervals,
while the end for which the lake-dwellings
were erected — ^namely, the securitv of per-
son and property — and their construction
remained the same.*'

Of the religion of the lake-dwellers
tbere is no certain information; but
some relics made of stone and pottery,
somewhat crescent-shaped, found in
bronze-age settlements. Dr. Keller
thmks may be representative of the
crescent moon, and, therefore, proba-
bly objects of worship. According to
Pliny, the Druids gathered the mistle-
toe with great solemnity on the sixth
day of the moon ; and hence it is infer-
red that the moon images were sacred
emblems, having power to avert and
cure diseases. This, however, is but
a fancy, for it does not appear from
Caesar that the Celts worshipped the
heavenly bodies.

The fauna and flora of the lake-
dwellings afford interesting informa-
tion to naturalists, and throw some light
on the questions as to the origin, the
development, and distnbution of
species. During the stone age, the
5ot primigeniuM and ho9 bison were
abundant, but they disappear after the
introduction of metallic wei^ns ; the
fonner is now only found on the

marshes of the North Sea.
large ox, with great semiloi
bent forward from the froi
(bos iroehoeeros)^ and which
contemporaneous with the i
and hippopotamus, appears
been domesticated at Con
Chevreaux. It is now ext
the marsh cow (bos bra
which was most abundant in
age, has continued to exist tc
ent time, and now occupies t
tainous parts of Switzerlan<
wild mountain valleys. In t
periods, several races of s
wild, which were subsequent!
ticated. The fox was al
eaten ; but the hare was not
food, even the traces of its
are' few ; neither domestic i
rats, nor mice appear. Wik
predominate in the stone
they gave way in subsequen
to domestic animals.

The seeds and other parts •
lying in the lake mud, or buri
several feet of peat, have bee
preserved, that their characte
determined. The small-gra
rowed barley and the small Is
ing wheat (triHcum vulgars
rum) were, from the earliest p
most generally cultivated of
ous seeds ; and, notwithstai
rudeness of the husbandry im
the quality of the produce w;
ently equal to that of mode:
the spelt (tritictim spelta)^
of the most important cereals
zerland, did not appear till t]
age ; while rye was entirely i
thus showing a connection
countries of the Mediterra
lake colonists having the san
as the Egyptians. Cakes o
ened bread have been found
millet and wheat, which 1
baked on the hearthstone
dwellings. Barley seems to 1
used boiled or parched; bni
crushers and mealing-etones I
found in most of the settleme
had been extensively used
The latest settlement, datiiq( 1

The Lake-DwOingt.

Dot less than 2,000 years, and the
<dder going some 3,000 years and
inore further hackward still, it is in-
teresting to observe what change this
Vng lapse of time produced on plants :

**The dense, compact wheat and the dose,
iix-Towed bariey have undergone no percep-
tible change, yet it miut be confessed that
ttoit of them agree with no recent forms
nffidenUy to allow of their being classed to-
gether. The small Celtic beans, the peas, the
■nail lake^lweUing barley, the Egyptian and
mn take-dwelling wheat, and the two-rowed
vhett, or emmer, form peculiar and appar-
ently extinct races ; they are distinguished
for the most part from the modern cultivated
kiodfl by smaller seeds. Man has, therefore,
■I eoune of time produced sorts which give
a more abundant yield, and these have grad-
uHysappUnted the old varieties."

With wild plants the case is differ-
ent:

"The flora of the lake-dwellings announces
to OS that all the plants which come in con-
tact vith man become changed up to a cer-
tam point, and man participates in the great
tniuformations of nature, while the wild
plttti, vhieh surround us at the present day,
^ grow in the same forms as they did
^livcA or four thousand years ago, and do not
ttUbit thesightest cliange.**

The 6nal ahandonment of these
^•ke^nreUings, ahout the beginning of
^Christian era, would result from
•n improved civilization and a more
iBNted and orderly state of society ;
^ how long before that time they
hid been occupied has not yet been
^cfinitelj determined ; our chronology
M still relative rather than absolute.
Pett has accumulated over some set-
'^^BMots. but as its rate of growth
^•ries under different conditions, wo
^ only told by it that the stone-age
dwdlings lasted many centuries. At
^oheoluiisen peat moor, there are
'^ouuM of three settlements of the
'^ age, one over the other ; two of
vhidi had been destroyed by fire, and
^ hst had been abandoned, probably
* leooant of the increase of peat
^ctveen the first and second settle-
^^ there are three feet of peat and
fiM ftot of other deposit, both contain-
l^tdieB; between the second and
""1 settlements the deposits are the
''■ttiB dHtncter and thicknesj. and

over the last dwelling are two feet of
peat and half-a-foot of mould ; so that
during the stone age there had been a
slow growth of eight feet of peat, and
the deposit of three and a half feet of
other matter. Other mean if have been
used to obtain more definite results;
the most remarkable of which is that
of Professor Morlot, who from an ex-
amination of a cone of gravel and
alluvium, connected with deposits of
the stone, bronze, Roman, and recent
periods, and gradually built up by the
torrent of Teniere where it falls into
Lake Creneva, concludes that the age
of bronze has an antiquity of from
3,000 to 4,000 years, and that of
stone from 5,000 to 7,000 years— no
very startling estimate, when we re-
member the high antiquity which has
been assigned to the drifl and cave
men.

Of the physical characters of the
lake - dwellers. Dr. Keller gives us
little information ; that they liad small
hands is probable from the shortness
of their sword-handles. Few human
bones, and those chiefly of children,
have been found. No crania of the
stone age have been seen, but a few
out of the bronze period, one of
which from Meilen differs little from
the skulls of the existing Swiss. It
is, therefore, munly from the relics
found that we can form any guess as
to the origin and relationship of the
lake-dwellers, and by those it is shown
that they belonged to the very people
who at the same time lived on the
mainland. Dr. Keller concludes
" that the builders of the lake-dwell-
ings were a branch of the Celtic
population of Switzerland, but that
the earlier settlements belong to the
prc-historic period, and had already
fallen into decay before the Celts took
their place in the history of Europe.

The history of the lake-dweller3
opens a hopeful prospect for thase
races who are now in a degraded
condition ; for here they start with a
low degree of civilization, and ret
there is a gradual rise upward to toat
point where great skill was reached

iM JPifo-Blauom.

in metallnrgic and otber arte ; bat Swiss people. Why sboald m

eren this was only a st^ onward to races pass through the same

that high cnlliyadon of intellect and espedallj when inflacnced h}

iFiorals among their descendanto the coarse with modem civilized n

PEA-BLOSSOM.

I HEAR a faltering footstep

Crossing the matted floor,

And a little knock low down

On the panels of the door.

A small hand is uplifted

To raise the iron latch,

And entrance claimed in a silyery tone

No nightingale could match.

Awaj with books and papers !

Enter, my fairy bright ;

Sweep the dim cobwebs from my brain,

And let in air and light.

Close the dull portals of history.

Unclasp that magic door

That leads to the jewelled caverns

Of fiction and fairy lore :

The l^end of Cinderella,

Of knighto and maidens small.

Of princely frogs and pigmy dogs.

And my lady's golden ball.

Good-night, my white-robed enchantress.

My blue-sashed, sunny-haired muse ;

Perfecdon thou art, from that topmost curl

To the tips of thy dainty shoes.

Watch her well, angel-guardian I

Pray for her, crowned saint.

That when the time for the cross shall come,

Her spirit grow not faint ;

That she may go to her last repose

With a heart unspotted by sin—*

That this ftuse of lustrous purity

May mirror the soul within.

A MmA at a I\rmtA Wattrit^Iiaea.

4B6

oBionrAL.
[ONTH AT A FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

BT AX OLD BACHSLOB.

had a great veneration
les of Esculapius, but
so as when my consider-
Knded that a sea Y07-
lutely necessary for my
ig unblessed by those
wife and children, I de-
low my obedience to his
d at the same time to
3ng-cherished plan of
1 world.* Be reassured,
i no intention of harrow-
i spirits by a description
), nor of wearying you
riences at custom-house
)6t, but desire to trans-
duce to the good little

) of V J which had

nded to me as the very

xorcising of that tyrant

la.

ely evening in July that

Lge from D , for the

place, for railroads have
ided the primitive sim*

village; hotels have,
much to my satisfaction
\ after a charming hour's
n a cozy room with an
3r before me. My host-
)Covered to be quite a

raw-boned, fast-talking
, with a suspicious dark-
pper lip. When I had
epast, this worthy dame
bat it was the custom of
rneurs" to repair to the
nner ; so giving me my
the showed me the way,
edience departed,
was then full, and cast
deceptive light on all
be wretched huts where-

in the French peasantry contentedly
huddle, mellowed by its light, looked
picturesque and quaint Looking
around, I found that the village nestled
between two hills, and that I was at
the moment in the principal street,
which cuts it in two, and from which
smaller streets diverge in all direc-
tions. Tempted by the quiet of the
evening I turned from the main road,
and soon found myself in one of the
prettiest winding lanes imaginable ;
at that quiet hour, with the moonlight
streaming through the interlacing tress,
J know of nothing more charming than
a walk along the winding paths which
form a network around the village;
what in the day time might be simply
pretty, borrowed from the lovely night
a charm and mystery that was irre-
sistible; and so I wandered on, a
luxurious feeliiig, half melancholic,
half pleasurable, soothing my spirit,
until I was abruptly reminded that all
things sweet in this life are short, by
finding myself at the end of my pretty
lane, and once more landed in the
village street Here my landlady's
admonition was brought to my mind,
by seeing several parties of red-hood-
ed, red-cloaked personages all going
one way ; these were evidently scMiie
of the good bathers, and them I foik>w-
ed. In a few minutes I found myself
in quite a small crowd of strangers,
who made the beach look like a gar-
den of poppies. I, who had formed
my ideas of watering-places from
Newport and Long Branch, looked in
amazement at< th^ beach^ whidi is
nothing more or less than a break in
the high white elifi, which stretch on
either side at ftr at the «jo oan

406

A MmUk or a Frtnek Watering-Pbtee.

reach ; however, thoagh small, it seem-
ed coDTenient, and I looked at the
ripplmg water in eager anticipation
of the morrow's bath. Seating myself
on the stones, which form a poor sub-
■titute for the firm white sand of New-
port, I proceed as is my custom, to
observe my companions, and from their
trifling actions to form an opinion of
their different natures. A number of

ft)ups attracted my attention, but as
merely discovered that the ladies of
the parties were industriously occupied
in trying' to out-babble — talk it hardly
was— each other, and that the men
carelessly reclined near them smok-
ing, in utter despair of otherwise mak-
ing use of their mouths, I was be-
ginning to think that there was not
much food for my observations, when
my attention was suddenly arrested by
the familiar sound of a few English
words. Turning around, I saw at a
few steps from me a party which I
had not yet observed. The centre
figure of this new picture at once ar-
rested my attention ; evidently this lady
considered herself of gi*eat importance,
for she was laying down the law to
the various persons around her, with
a volubility that a French woman only
can attain. Her dress was an extraor-
dinary caricature of rural finery ; it
was a pity, I thought, that the face un-
der that peculiarly youthful, flower-or-
namented hat, should be that of a plain
woman of fifty. Her court was prin-
cipally composed of various feeble imi-
tations of herself, but my attention was
soon entirely occupied by two figures
at the extreme verge of the group,
a young lady and a gentleman ; the
young lady seemed to be giving an
English lesson to her listless compan-
ion, who appeared almost too indolent
to turn around in admiration of the
girFs sprightliness ; a second glance
convinced me that I was near one of
my own countrywomen ; the delicate
profile, fragile form, and rather ner-
vous manner could belong to none but
an American. My interest was now
excited to the hightest pitch, for when
an ocean rolls between a man and hia

country, all that reminds
country has an irresistibi
pecially when that someU
to be a pretty girL But
tions were cut short, for tl
ty arose a few minutes a
the beach. I soon foUowe
ed from my voluble Ian
had been observing felh
that the strangely attired
most important personag
that she patronized sea-b
summer, and that she rej
name of Madame la Bar
The handsome young n
the beard, proved to be her
the ''Charmante Americaii
with her mother, an inval
sea air had been ordered
lowed a long description
members of the party, a 1
Poirier and their daugh
artist and several other p<
which description I fear I
differently attentive.

Next morning it rained
ing a part of nearly ever
gramme, as I afterward
Not yet having become
the fact, I was dolefully 1
the hotel door, vainly en
discover a patch of blue
was joined by Madame 1
nephew. Remarks on
were followed by a polil
cigar, whose genial fra^
induced a more interestii
tion. A few chance wo
out the fact that my youn
was quite an amateur che
in my college days, ch
been a sort of passion y
were soon launched in i
discussion. I was much
hear what rapid strides
had recently taken in th;
positive sciences. Froi
we passed to politics, phi
finally religion. While
this young man's dear, ■!
tion of his sentiments ot
ous subjects, I found my
ing at this, to me, new ]
French character, as nnli

A Mndk d a HwuA Waterinff-Plaee.

407

ftiToIoas, gay-bearted Frenchman of
the novd and stage, as possible. I
most say it pleased me even less ; the
down-right scepticism, the well-tiiraed
•ophisma, the extreme materialism,
were easily traced to the teachings of
Voltaire. I am well pleased to think
that this joang man is the represen-
tative of bat a comparatively small
class, but unfortunately that class is
ccnnposed of much of the brain of
the country, and consequently car-
ries with it great influence. On
all American questions M. Louis
d!Agri (for so the young man was
cilled) showed a curious interest ; of
onr great war his opinion had been
^Basaed by Southern influence — not un-
Dtturally, since his only American asso-
ciates had been from that portion of our
ooontiy; these associates had also given
lum their ideas on the subject of
slarenr, but a few facts, put in the
fimpki. plain way which seemed best
to Roit his turn of mind, convinced
him, or seemed to convince him, that,
in that particular at least, his judg-
Bioitwas in error. He asked many
Vjestions on the present state of af-
^ in our country, of the possible
^re of the South, of the treatment
<^ Jefferson Davis, etc, etc., all of
wWch I answered apparently to his
>*^i>&ction. Indeed, not only in his
^9 hut in many others, I have
i^^'tieed that there is a great curiosity
^«k about everything American ; to
teB the truth, I think that the war
j^^onght to their minds that a vast and
™portant country really does exist on
^ other side of the broad ocean, a
^ of which before they were but
• ^"^ ooDscious. Even now, the
''''■oge ignorance of our customs,
^^ and especially our geogra-
P^Leven among the educated class-
^ would bring forth the astonish-
"^ and indignation of any Ameri-
?J^ilftli.form school -boy. The
^^^ifh are singularly devoid of our
9^'^liead qualities in everything; they
^''^ but little, and being perfectly
^^**!Vmced that France is the only
^^'^B^ of aoj real importance on

the globe, trouble themselves but little
about any other, especially should that
other be separated from them by an
ocean.

From American politics we turned
to those of France, a subject which
brought out the young man's most
bitter anathemas ; dissatisfied with
the form of government, with the
people, and especially with the em-
peror, he expressed himself with
much more freedom than any othei'
Frenchi^an I had yet conversed
with. Most of them answer any ob-
jections with a shrug of the shoul-
ders, and a furtive glance about them ;
they often praise the emperor for the
good he has done their beloved Paris,
but with an air which says : ^ I like
not the man, but admire his sagacity."
Very few Americans, however, could
have expressed more republican, more
anti-aristocratic sentiments than M.
d'Agri, who, as I learned afterward,
is the last direct representative of a
decayed but noble house. On all re-
ligious topics he proved to be an utter
sceptic, avowedly believing in nothing,
and regarding as either knaves or
dupes all those who did not stoop to
his own degrading materialism : sin-
gular that a mind so clear should be
so f^erted. We had merely broach-
ed the last subject, when the ladies of
the party, enticed by the sun which
was beginning to brighten the sky,
descended, and proposed going down
to bathe. M. d'Agri, advancing to-
ward the young lady I had observed
the night before, said :

^ Mees Fanneey I have just been
havhig an interesting conversation
with a countryman of yours.**

The young lady's face brightened^
and with a frankness tliat is certainly
a charm peculiar to American girls, ex-
tended her hand, saying in English :

'^Is it possible! Americans in a
foreign land can scarcely be strang-
ers r and so, ftt>m that moment, I was
considered as one of the party. Mrs.
Hayne, the invalid mother, I found
belonged to that rather extensive chiss
of ladies who, from having some slight

•d petk till
k gram Id be A real maUtf^
■Mkn torn udiuiLr wfnkkut fli
enUe. As we walked to die
I was made dte hooored rcci| ii cn t of
dte good ladT*! woes, and being a
toleiable liMener was onefiateljr
taken into her fiiTor.

We fboDd die beadi afacadj firel j
with the inde&iigable batlieiBy who
Miae on all lolerablj' sanehinj' dajt to
Ma r ch for health in the hixnrioos wa-
ter. Sereral groops of people, who ei-
ther had bathed or were goii^lobathe
falter, were seated on tiie stones, watdi-
iDg with interest the eztraordbiaiy
looking ^ores thai emerged firon the
long row of cabins. Notwithstanding
my eagerness for a good swim, I stood
for nearl J half an boor watching also ;
manj of the ladies who went into their
cabins majestic in width of skiit and
flowing draperjy emerged from them
ledoced to a mere ghost of their for-
mer grandeur. To all whom it mar
oonoem, I giro it as my decided
opinion, that oiWsilk caps and scant
bathing dresses are generally not be-
coming, and that a yooog man must
be of a peculiarly susceptible disposi-
tion to become enamored of these sea-
nymphs.

One thing let me observe, there is a
regard for personal safety here of
which we are too devoid. I noticed
in the water two black- clothed indi-
viduals, whose only business seemed
to bo to exercise those ladies and
children who did not swim, so that
they might not catch cold; to give
lessons to beginners in the noble art
of swimming, and to have an eye to
the safety of the bathers generally.
When the bath is over, the well-cared-
for person is well wrapped up and
hurried to the cabin, where a hot foot-
bath is in readiness ; to this latter ar-
rangement I give my most cordial ap-
proval.

As I turned around, ailer these
various observations, intending in my
turn to appropriate one of the cabins,
I was met by Madame d Agri, who, in
an ecoentric bathmg-dross, was trip*

ping down to the water. Sli
me, she overwhelmed me with ¥
patronage, asaaring me that b
phew h^qnkenoTme in the 1
tera»,aDd that all his iMendi
hers ; and finally poiDting to the 1
cabin on the batch, over whit
£unily arms floated ostentatioai
formed me that in that cabin th
en retiivd from the vulgar her
invited me, whenever I felt an
by the pidmans around me, t
them, tlmt a chair would alwayi
my ^sposaL Bowing my thai
hesi a hasty retreat, out of bre<
very sympathy.

After my bath, which I enjoj
only veteran swimmers can enjo
sallied forth to verify or destrc
impressions my moonlight stroll
night before had given me. To
extent, at least, they were destr
in the moonlight the low, thatcho
-—cottages they could scarce!
called — looked picturesque ; ii
broad daylight they looked i
squalid ; dirt and djscomfbrt R
supreme. In many of these hots
seemed to be but one, unfit
wretched-looking room, servio
kitchen, bedroom, and park>r,
swanning frmiily of dirt^ children
their dirtier parents. Yet I an
that many of these peasants, wfa
content to live in these hovels
after year, and subsist on crabs,
winkles, and suph trash, are
comparatively well ofi^, some of
being in actual receipt of rents aa
ing to ten and fifteen thousand I
a year ; but as their fathers lii
do they live, and the natural i
quenoe is that they are an ill-fs^
withered-looking set. I look
vain for a fresh, blooming girl,
seemed to be no age between t
and fifty; even the children 1
withered, and the old people wen
ly bent double; yet they lived oa
tented enough, becaose dreams
no other possible life, and e^joyii
bustle of an occasional f&to widi
which our more phlegmatie f
would disdain. While makiqg

A MnM at a J^¥ench Wai^ng-MacB.

409

I again found myself in
se charming lanes wliich
sised me the night before,
iast, were unspoiled by the
md ; what a blessing that
; degrade nature, however
rade himself! By my side
and gurgled the prettiest
dignified here by the name
iviere,** which I ever saw ;
stal, swift and cold, it lends
freshness to the whole
ind. An American fanner
I at the tiny stream scarce-
in a mile in length, but an

revel in its beauty,
rhat with bathing, walking,
i chatting, time passed qui-
isantly at the little village

Meanwhile I grew more
iterested in watching my
, especially two of them ;
nd myself^ while seeming
he Baix>nne's endless tales
se's past grandeur, or to
layne's recital of her trou-
y observing my young
an and M. Louis d*Agri.

I did his ideas on serious
1 feeling, too, the influence
ind like his, strong, cool,
ting, could scarcely fail to
»r a sensitive and impul-
like hers, I found myself
ore and more uneasy,
ccustomed to that sort of
freedom which is entirely
I French girls, Miss Hayne

taking her lazy cavalier
nd obliging him, with the
fit air possible, to give up
ifort — now to fetch a chair,
Id her worsteds while she
I ; a sort of treatment to
j^ntlemau was evidently
id, and which, perhaps for
relty of the thing, seemed
: an unpleasant sensation,
other hand, he was fond of
t all her girlish and un-
l ideas, and quietly level-

hiB battery of cold-hcart-
, in order to destroy them
\ at first she would battle

bravely, but an impulsive girl, un-
trained to analyze her own oonvictioos,
has but a poor chance against a clear-
headed, determined man, and I noticed,
with pain, that after every such discus-
sion she would seem uneasy and depres-
sed. Then her opponent would lasily
settle himself in his chair, and allow his
rival, the young artist, whom I have
strangly slight^ heretofore, to bring
his gallantries into play. This young
man was a sort oi protege of Madame
d'Agri's, and an entirely different type
of man from Madame's nephew ; all
the arts and graces, compliments and
^ petits soins" which the latter despis-
ed, M. Dubois employed with true
French art. He had from the first
been struck by Miss Hayne's pret-
ty face, which he sedulously intro-
duced into all his sketches, paying her,
whenever he was permitted, most
unremitting attentions ; but I noticed
that, though the native coquetry which
seemed to be this girl's principal
fault, induced her to encourage him, a
word, or even a look from M. Louia
d'Agri, would draw her away from
him to the piano, or oftener to the
chess-board, where she invariably le-
• ceived severe lectures on her neglect
of the rulc»s of that noble game. You
may, in the mean time, wonder what
became of the other young girls of the
party, for there were several; tbej
looked at Mees Fannee, and her free-
dom of speech and action, in ill-oon-
cealed horror, and remained near their
mothers, chattering fast enough among
themselves, but scarcely venturing to
answer ** yes** or " no," when address-
ed by their elders, especially if those
elders happened to be of the other
sex. Indeed, M. Louis informed me in
confidence that his young countrywo-
men^ ^ s*ennuyent bien, et ma foi 1 ellffl
ennuyent joliment les autres" before
marriage, but after — ^bah 1 and an ex-
pressive wave of the hand finished the
sentence. "

One morning as I was kmnging
about, thinking witl. a certain d^ree
of ennui that doing nothing was, after
all, the hardest sort of wor^ I was I

410

A Mmik at a lirmA Waiering-Flaee.

bT Madame d*Agri. who accosted me
widi on* oc" bcr sweetest smiles.

- O MoGsiear I I was just wondering
wbere I *]>:<il«i dnd jou— so delighted,
Rallj so obarmed — ^roa must go with
iBk indeed jou mus:! now, no ex-
ctee: pc»^^dTelT I will accept none;
mis CHK vou mus: allow mj will to be

*> Mjdame. I am voar most obedient ;
boc in who: portioular am I required
ao MOW 32 T du:T 'f

* Uoa £K« J ! and have I not told
▼oa : whst: a r-diy thing I am ; indeed
sv pvor husbKiod'' (whom lam sure
sQie auked ^3 death) -- always said I was

^Hidy ! We aw soin^ to C , where

m«rcv s to be a tece. and on the waj
vv v.-:u see a chateau or twa not much,
Tuu L20W. bat preciv well tor these die-
ceaeraue times* Yes, we are all going
^<3a: »» C'X DOC all. tor poor Madame
HaTtt*? bj^ (he migraine : dear ! dear !
!ii>w rbixz (vor woman suffers ! So the
dkauTuio'j: Mt^s Fannte has accepted
aie a5 herohapenxie — interesting girl,
fe» soe DOC : WelL as I was saying,
jidtoiasoe llajne has the migraine, and
Mdhi&aie Fierier has the toothache and
will swc l*:c her ilaughter go v;ithout
her; so the i>arty will be reduced to
3tadakme IXiehemin and her daughter,
MtC9 i'mwurtf. mr uo[>hew, M. Dubois
— beftis be noc a charming talent — and
myseli* ; and you really must join us —
pieoty 01 n>.^m 1 assure you, plenty of
nvni'. We shall go in one of those ve-
hu'Se* they call an 'Americaine' — I
tknoy it ivt it* name from the hospi-
raliti- with which it holds so many peo-
pkv^<o lite y*.>ur delightful country I**

At\er s^Hue little delay occasioned
by the Uiiit's, who. as might be cx-
|ve:ed. all forgv>t something at the last
LiKKnent. liie siane«l. It was a fresh,
brivry UK»raing, just such a one as
to excite high spirits, and make
i«o apprtx'iaie everj* trifling inci-
dent, rhe road was excellent, in-
di»tHl it made me blush for some of
our own ill-made, ill-kept roads ; but
of this I said nothing, for every Amer-
ican teels bound, when abroad, to
represent all concerning his country

« cooleur de rose." The scenery was
charming; nothing perhaps striking
and grand and vast, like the soeDezy
we arc most accustomed to, but a pleas-
ing nhemation of hill and dale, with
well-cultivated fields, Tillages nesding
in groves of fine trees, and above aH
occasional glimpses of the blue ocean,
to delight the eye and to give one i
genial and pleasing sense of the bean-
tiful, without calling forth rapturooi,
and let me add, fatiguing expressions
of admiration. When we reached the
first chateau we all agreed that ve
were tired of the ^ Americaine," and
that it was absolutely necessary foronr
happiness to wander about for half so
hour or so.

"M. d'Agrir exclaimed }Sm
Hayne *' you once promised me t
sketch ; here is my album, and yonder
chateau is the very subject for a' draw-
ing ; so, sir, please, to sit down aodober
my command."

" Obedience was never my prindpil
virtue, Mee$ FanneCj and I feel paIti^
ularly lazy this morning."

But a little imperious gesture, l^
companied by a half smile, had thar
effect, and the young man, perhaps too
indolent to make further objectioiH,
took the proffered album, and seekJoi
the softest grass-plot, sat down. Ino>
ticcd that the artist, of whose ana the
Baron ne liad taken possession, looked
around angrily, as (hough this timelL
d'Agri were in reality trespassing oo
his ground ; but that gentleman, hin-
selT quite a clever draughtsman, pro-
ceeded with most imperturbable Mif
/raid. The view he chose was reaDy
pretty. The cliatcau, a large, irrego-
lar edifice, stood at the end of a bo-
ble avenue of horse-chestnuts, whoie
broad leaves made a dense shade;
the country immediately aronnd wai
charming; a little stream somewhit

resembling that of V , only larger,

was seen in the dbtance, wanderiog
through shrubbery and trees, until loit
behind a hill which rose more abrupt*
ly than most of the hills in thb partof
Normandy. On the other hand,ficUi
of wheat and oats extended for loas

A Month ai a French WaUring-Plaee.

411

ended by a dark belting of
not far from us stood one of
•ge wayside crosses so often
Catholic countries, near which
erd was tending a flock of

the sketch was finished Mad-
Lgri came up, and admiring
, thanked Meea Fannee, with
resses, for having made that
lew of hers exert himself, and
le rest of the ride showered
•e than her ordinary share of
3sions on the young girl. This
lo my mind various other tri-
omstances, and I said within
•* French titles are often ac-
td by French poverty; this
h, and Madame la Baronne

I will watch."
late in the afternoon when
ed the village; leaving our
ses at the inn, we walked to
et place. Here, a number of
ly with flags and ribbons, sto^
ly displaying their wares;
hem were filled with second-
lighly colored china, for which
wretches were induced to try
nee, through the agency of a
ij dirty pack of cards. Gam-
small scale, for pieces of dusty
ad, seemed to be another fa-
de of parting with sous. On
' side, the beating of drums
png of cymbals announced
certain tent the unsophisti-
d could be rejoiced by extra-
theatrical representations for
rate sum of three sous ; dust,
[ bustle reigned supreme, and
nts in their holiday clothes
> be at the very height of en-
Altogether it was a gay and
le scene, but I was content to
a respectful distance. Not so
d'Agri ; she patronized the
who looked at her eccen-
ne in bewildered admiration ;
;he children under the chin,
e parents, and in short acted
'grande dame" of the fete
01^8 content. As night ap-
a large building in the cen-

tre of the place, used, I believe, as a
sort of flour depdt on market days, was
lighted by Chinese lanterns and flaring
tallow candles; here the youth of
both sexes enjoyed a rollicking, laugh-
abounding dance, to the sound dT a
cracked fiddle. Madame was just in-
sisting on forming a quadrille of her
own, to encourage the peasantry, who,
by the way, seemed but little in need
of encouragement, when her nephew
represented to her that we should not
get home till late as it was, and that
the moon would not serve after a cer-
tain hour. Reluctantly she yielded,
and we settled ourselves once more in
our ^ Americaine," tired but pleased.
The conversation was soon monopoliz-
ed by M. d'Agri and Miss Fanny, who,
whatever might be their fatigue, al-
ways seemed to have some point of
dispute.

After this excursion my vigilance
increased, and my observations were
not pleasing; two or three little cir-
cumstances brought out in M. d'Agri's
character an insensibility to the pains
and sufferings of others, and a certain
cruelty of thought and action, which,
notwithstanding the interest his fine
intellect excited in me, brought a feel-
ing of distrust, and at times of dis-
like.

One rather misty day, on which
but few bathers ventured into the
water, I, feeling a need of exercise,
determined to enjoy my customary
swim. The cabin I happened to take
stood next to the large one of
Madame d^Agri. When I returned,
dripping and glowing from my bath,
I noticed that the lady was seated in
it sewing, and that her nephew was
lounging by her, reading the paper.
As I was luxuriating in the deticioas
feeling which I beUeve sea-bathing
alone can give, I was startled by a
few words which came distinctly to
my ears ; so far the conversation bad
not risen above an occasional, mono-
tonous ham, but suddenly I fband
myself in the awkward position of a
forced listener, as the thin woodeo
partiti<» prored bat a slight obstnM)-

412

A MmA tU a Renek WaUnrng-Plaee.

tion to the heightened voices of the
epeakcrs.

^ My good aant, let ns not broach
that sabject again.**

*^ My good nephew, I must and will ;
the welfare of our noble house — **

"< Fiddlesticks r (this is a mild
translation.) '^Listen rather to this
account of the transactions at Vien-
na.

^ Louis, you are mad. If you will
not be moved by higher considerations,
think at least of your own comfort —
that comfort that you love so well.
You are poor, too high born to work,
what then is left you but a wealthy
marriage ?* '

" There you have touched my only
vulnerable point, my comfort; but then,
my dear aunt, what becomes of your
aristocratic scruples ? would you have
the noble blood of the d'Agris con-
taminated ? — "

^ But, Louis, Americans are not like
others ; it is true they do say her fa-
ther made his money in commerce, but
then, I read somewhere or other that
Americans consider themselves all as
sovereigns ; besides, we want money,
and if it is said that you married a
foreigner, people will not trouble them-
selves about the origin of her money-
sacks, as they would if 8h(^ were the
daughter of a French ret u rier. Come,
my boy, be reasonable ; remember tlmt
you are the last representative — **

^I remember, ratlicr, that cham-
pagne is dear, and so are cigars:
what do you want of me ?"

"I want you to marry this rich
girl ; no^ hard task — yon seem to like
her well enough — **

" My good aunt, everything in life
bores me. When I was a child, my
playthings bored me ; later, school
and college proved almost intolerable
bores ; my nmk bores me ; Paris bores
me, the country still more so ; society
is an insufferable bore, but above all,
French girls bore me. Now, this Meeg
Fannee is original or seems to mo so ;
she stirs me a little with her quick-
ness, her coquetry, and her outre ideas.
But remember that has not yet lasted

long ; a few weeks more, and she too
probably^ will bore me — and then for
a whole lifetime . • • good aunt, thit
is a consideration to make a man
tremble !"

'< Nonsense, Louis ; yon will have to
marry some time or other."

'^ Yes, I suppose so ; but French
girls are brought up with a beconung
sense of the submission due from
wives to husbands; now, this girl
would prove rebellbus I know, and,
however democratic I may be in my
theory of the government of natiou,
my theory of the government of the
' menage ' is that of despotism. Be-
sides, I have a remnant of humanitj
lefl in me, and would not condemn
that bright young creature to the
misery of being my wife ; no, no, let
her marry some Quixotical American,
who will place her on a high pedestal
and pass his life in admiring her and
letting her henpeck him.*'

I could not help smiling at thii
resume of an American husband*^
chivalric devotion.

" Very well, you will pass your life
as you have commenced it ; you will
deny yourself all sorts of luxuriei
because they are expensive; thit
Rembrandt you covet so, will remaio
unpurchased ; you want to trareJ^
but you will stay at home, becftue
travelling costs money ; and finallr
you will marry some girl as poor ii
yourself, or with a ddt, which she wiH
spend, ^together witli more than half
your pittance, in buying silks aBi
satins to outshine Madame this or
IVIadnme that — "

'*Hold!'

^' On tlio other hand, yon might, bf
marrying this charming MeeSj deco-
rate your house with pictures sad
statutes, go everywhere, see every-
thing, and take your place among the
enlightened patrons of art and acienee;
all this you rt\jcct because you are
afraid this little JMeeg will prove
stronger of will — ^

" Stronger of will than I T' and IL
Louis sprang from his chair; the
Baxx>nne was no fool after alL ** Dift

A MtmA ai a Frmeh Wcaerm^Haee.

418

re are few women I could not
mj will. My aunt, I will
luck with this little Mees ;
wed her, and conquer her,

re 8iK)ke a d'Agri; but, my
jj you should pay her court
»dnou8ly, compliment her — **
iw! I understand your
I sex better than you do
; if flattery could have won
should long ago have been
by that so^headed, smooth-

artbt. No, the surest way
k woman is to make her feel

can master her, and that if

before her, it is only because
»se to do so."
ou are not afraid of ultimate

you think she loves you ?**
but I think she is fascinated,
zed, what you will, by me,
lUswers the . same purpose ;
are to do is to hasten matters,
t is what I mean to do. I
e has gone to the * Source'
>f her eccentric, solitary ram-
.o revoir, ma bonne Tante !"
young man sprang from the
ith an energy which I had
efore noticed in him. Soon
idame gathered up her work
Jy, and I heard no more. My
ished I also took my depart-
thoughtfully turned my steps
he hotel.

Y way I met Miss Fanny just
I ' from her walk ; evidently
is had missed her. Ascer-
bat she was not tired, I begged
scompany me to a particularly
K>t on the hill, from which the
ras seen to advantage ; on the

conversation was desultory,
[ tried gradually to lead it to
ect I meant soon to attack,
kted under the trees, I changed
, and looking at her earnestly,

I Fanny, will yon pardon me
terest I feel in you, as a coun-
A, and as a guileless girl,
e to speak pkunly to you?
ler that I am more than twice

your age ; come, have I permission to
make myself disagreeable ?"

"I do not understand you" — and
she looked np startled ; then, perhaps
reading a part of my thoughts in my
face, she said with a blush, " Yes, you
may speak.''

I then, as gently as possible, told
her what I had observed, and dwelt
on the young man's unsound religions
principles, on his want of synlpathy for
others, etc, and finally related the con-
versation I had just heard, softening
some parts, but giving a detailed ac-
count of others. She bent her head,
and seemed considerably moved.

" And now, my child," I continued,
" give me the satisfaction of feeling
that I have done right, that you are
glad to know this, that your heart is not
as yet so engaged in this affair as to
bring you any real unhappiness ; if I
thought I had unwittingly wounded any
deep and honest sentiment of yours,
if I thought you felt for this young
man that sort of love which hallows
its object, and of^en purifies it from
evil, I could not easily forgive my-
self."

** You need not fear, my good friend ;
I thank you for your interest in me,"
and she extended her hand, smiling
faintly through her tears. "I have done
wrong I know, but this is how it hap-
pened : at first, ennuyed by the quiet-
ness of this place, which seemed so
dull after Newport, I commenced a
sort of flirtation with this M. Louis
d'Agri, merely bedause I craved ex-
citement."

" Precisely ; in other words you are
an example of our as yet imperfect
system of education. In France young
girls are kept in severe restraint, from
whicJi they rebound after mairiage,
often causing much misery; ours is
the other extreme — there is an almost
unlimited degree of liberty among our
young people, which is so far good
that it creates a feeling of chivalric
honor among the men, and of sel^
sustaining strength among the women ;
but at the same time this freedom cre-
ates also a longing for ezcitementy a

414

A MmA €A a Frmch Waimmg-Ftae^

ftBX of ennui, ivhich finds vent in an
immense amount ^of fiirting, generally
innocent enough, but which becomes a
part of the character of aknost every
young person, especially every young
girl — is it not so P*

'^ Perhaps it is ; at all events the
peculiar character of this young man
soon interested me ; I felt piqued at
his indolent, indifferent manner, and
continued the flirtation ; gradually, as
I came to know him better, he acquir-
ed over me, I scarcely know how, a
sort of influence from which I could
not rid myself; but never once did I
mistake the feeling which prompted
mo to crave his society, for love."

^ Then you do not think he could
have succeeded in — '*

'^ I do not know ; liad I not been
made aware of his base, mercenary
motives, he might have strengthened
that influence so far as to blind me to
its nature, and make me think it love ;
but—"

" But now you are warned."
" But now I defy M. Louis d'Agri
and his fascinations," and her eyes
flashed.

" Still, do you not think that you
would feel more comfortable away from
his society ?"

" I feel no fear, but shall be glad to
leave this place. Fortunately, mother
was complaining this very morning of
the cold sea-winds, and I can easily
persuade her that it is necessary to go
further soutli. Is your mind easy
now? I sec you have but little faith
in my resolution."

" Pardon me. I have, but I think
tliat the Baronne would find means to
make a longer residence here disagree-
able, did she perceive the change
which your manner must necessarily
undergo."

Our conversation lasted some little
time longer, and ended by most kindly
express^ thanks, and hopes for some
future meeting, which hopes I most
cordially reciprocated, for the girl's

frank and simple mamier during the
past conversation had much heighten-
ed my esteem of her.

That evening there arose a perfect
storm of regrets, and expressions of
surprise at Mrs. Haynes suddenly ex-
pressed determination. <^ It was not
possible ! Madame*B health had im-
proved so perceptibly," which assertioo
the worthy lady repudiated with as
much enei^ as though it had been
an insulL ^ We shall feel so deserted
after she and Meet Fannee have gone,*
etc, etc Mee$ Fannee said notiiia^
but a heightened color, and a quiet,
determined manner new to her, seem-
ed to strike M. Louis forcibly; be
darted a quick look at me, but whether
he really ever suspected my agcnej io
the transaction or not, I never knew.
If he did, I believe that after the first
feeling of anger had passed, he kli
grateful rather than not, for his better
nature, I am glad to think, really re-
volted at the idea of the contemplated
meanness.

At eleven the next morning the old-
fashioned diligence carried Mett Fa»r
nee and her mother away, leaving the
h«)tel triste indeed. A little while after
I saw Madame la Baronne and ber
nephew walking up and down the little
garden, the lady gesticulating violent-
ly, and the young man quietly smok-
ing a cigar, and answering his excited
relative with an occasional shrug cf
the shoulders.

Soon after I also took my departare»
for I found the interest of the pbw*
strangely diminished, and the eveoip^
at the ** plage" stale, flat, and unprofi^-
ble ; so leaving the good French ladic*
and their daughters discussing tbe
coming winter's fashions with volobi*
interest, the indefatigable Baro&o^
eagerly looking out for another beir-
ess, and the nephew lazily indifiefc^
to her success, I made my adieux. Th«**
ended my month at a French wa*^""
ing-plaoe.

Ave Maria Sin$ Lahe Ooneepia. 416

AVE MARIA SINE LABE CONCEPTA.

BT BEY M. MULLIN.

Hail, Maiy, our Mother ! Hail, Virgin the purest I

Hail; Mary, the Mother of mercy and love !
Hail, Star of the Ocean, serenest and surest

That ever shone brightly in heaven above !
'Mid the shadows of death stretching down o er the nations,

Thy children have always rejoiced in your fame.
Oh I proudly we witness in our generations

The last crowning halo that circles thy name.

Tradition, which, joined with its sister evangel,

Grod placed upon guard at the door of his bride.
Tradition, which beams like the sword of the angel,

As. flame-like, it *' tumeth on every side,"
Tradition shoots up o'er the ages victorious —

Its summit in heaven, its base upon earth —
Like a pillar of fire, far-shining and glorious, ,

And shows thee all sinless and pure in thy birth.

As fair as the rose 'mid Jerusalem's daughters.

As bright as the lily by Jordan's blue wave,
As white as the dove, and as clear as the waters

That flowed for the prophet and circled his grave ;
As tall as the cedar on Lebanon's mountain,

As fruitful as vine-tree in Cades' domain.
As straight as the palm by Jerusalem's fountain.

As beauteous as rose-bush on Jericho plain ;

As sweet as the balm-tree diffusing its odor,

As sweet as the gold-harp of David the king,
As sweet as the honeycomb fresh from Mount Bodor,

As pweet as the face veiled by Gabriel's wing :
The silver-lined sky o'er the garden of Flora,

The rainbow that gilds the dark clouds within view,
The star that shines brightest, the dawning Aurora-^

More chaste than the moon, and more beautiful toa

The glass without stain, and the radiance immortal,

The ever-sealed fount in the city of Grod,
The garden enclosed, on whose sanctified portal

None e'er but the King of the angels hath trod :
Tlvo sign that appeared in mid-Heaven — a maiden

With the moon 'neath her feet, and twelve stars on her head)
Son-doilied, going up from the desert to Eden ;

Such Maiy, the Queen of the liviDg and dead.

416 Jbfe Mima Sim Lab$ Ometfiku

Oh ! such are the words of the saints now in glorj,

Whose voices are heard o'er the dark waste of timCy
Like sentinels set through the centuries hoary.

Proclaiming her free from original crime ;
Of the prophets and ponti£&, and doctors and sages,

Who once in this dark vale of misery trod,
Like lamps hanging out on the mist-covered ages

To light up the ways of the city of Grod.

We see hy their light with a swelling emotion

The hark of the church, as it onward doth ride,
Through tempest and gloom, where the Star of the Ocean

Doth hrighdy illunune its path o'er the tide ;
Where clouds become thicker and hurricanes fleeter,

And threaten to shut out its radiance from view,
We see through the darkness the figure of Peter

As he points it out still b the sailors and crew.

We hear the loud ring of the multitude's paean

By the nations in triumph exultantly sung^
From the cliffs of the north to the distant .^^^an,

As Celestine silenced Nestorius' tongue :
Li Ephesas' temple^ — the temple of Mary —

The fathers hold council by Peter's command,
Li Ephesus' streets, long expectant and weary.

The crowds stand with joybells and torches in hand.

We see the grand figure of Cyril before us.

Where John, her adopted, before him had trod,
As pontiffs and people swell loud the glad chorus,

That Maiy our Mother is Mother of God.
And oh ! that we Ve witnessed the last shining lustre,

That Star of the Stars, in her diadem set,
The first in existence, last plac ed in the cluster.

To shine through a long line of centuries yet ;

There were journeys by land, there were ships on the oceiD>

That bore Jndah's princes to Sion's bright walls ;
Tlie people have heard with a thrilling emotion

The voice of the high priest, as on them it calk*
Oh ! bless them, dear Mother, we pray with emotion.

And bless this green island, that looks up to thee ;
For this, dearest Mother, is gem of the ocean,

And thou art immaculate Star of the Sea.

December 8,1864.

Woman.

417

OaiQIHAIi.

WOMAN,*

the social topics of the day,
present position and future
f woman holds a prominent
s is the less to he wondered
he course of civilization, the
iblic opinion, together with
f the progress of machinery
, have materially altered the
ch were once esteemed pe-
r own.

e three small books before
n England, and all bearing
e topic The first (*< Es-
^oman's Work") delineates
)ly the fact, that the actual
>men, independently of that
within the domestic circle,
ely to the employment of
immense. Our authoress
the great revolution which
so little noticed amidst the
olitics and the clash of war
idrawal of women from the
iiousehold, and the suction of
undrcds of thousands within

of industrial life»" Page
lys : " I was told in Man-
' one of the most eminent and
women in England, that the
1^ of a mill in full work at the
inner was such a -torrent of
aanity that a lady could not
Qst the stream. I was told
hing at Bradford by a female
Page 22) — " It is clear then,
sm society will have it so, wo-
work." But not women only ;
emale children are wind-
er twelve clear hours a day
hot African sun, in a chari-
omical institution,'' (27) and

have led the hearth and
i, and the young girls and

X Woman** Work, by Bessie R. Piirkes.
docailon of Woman, by Emily Davis,
■k In the Church, by J. M. Ludluir. Lon-
-York : AUx. 8limUo.

VOL IT. 27

the little children tfaemselvefl have ran
to offer their feeble anns ; whole vil-
lages are silent, while huge brick build-
ings swallow up thousands of living
humanity from dawn of day until twi-
light shades." (33)—" There are to be
seen the obvious results of the absence
of married women from their homes^
in discomfort, etc., and in the utter
want of domestic teaching and train-
ing during the most important years
of youth; besides the sure deterio-
tion of health consequent on long con-
finement." Well may Miss Parkes
consider it " a purely economical and
selfish tendency, acting by competition
alone and casting aside unprofitable
material. Women are more and more
lefl to provide for themselves, and so-
ciety takes hardly any trouble to en-
able them to do so, either by education
or by opening the doors to salaried em-
ployment. The great overplus of the
female sex in England, caused chiefiy
by the wholesale emigration of men to
the colonies, increases the difficulty
tenfold." " In fact, the general freedom
and laisser aUer of English political
and social life, while it serves many
admirable purposes in the general
economy of the nation, allows the
weaker classes, those who are in any
way unfitted for the race, to go to the
wall, while the others pass by. I be-
lieve the very poor to suffer far more
in England than elsewhere; and I
am sure there is no country on earth
where so many women are allowed to
drift helplessly about, picking up the
scanty bread of insufficient earnings."
" We are at present in an extraordini^
ry state of social disorganization ." (Pp
87, 88.)

This is bat a disnuil result of pro-
gress, of dvilisation ; modem society
with all its boasting seems to hvpe

418

Wommu

achieved little for happiness. After
this witness for the uneducated class.
Miss Parkes proceeds to show the dif-
ficulties that encompass the educated
striTers after bread, and here difficul-
ties seem to increase, from the danger
incurred by exposing young women
to intercourse with a corrupted social
state ; *^ it is better," says Miss Parkes,
**tohe starved in body than made worse
in the moral and spiritual life," and
in this we can but agree with her, as
also in the conclusion that this fiict
renders many an occupation ineligi-
ble which would otherwise be good in
itself. The lady's remarks on the
changes of eighty years are interest-
ing, as her accounts of *^ educated des-
titution" are graphic and painful in
their truth. Her remarks are sensi-
ble, and her plans proposed are so
modest and unassuming they seem ra-
ther suggestions, ^ helps to thought,"
than projects, and as such we cordial-
ly recommend them ; for though Amer-
ican society is not yet in the state de-
picted of the superabundant popuki-
tions of Europe, we cannot fail to re-
cognise that if the same ptincipUs are
exercised on this side of the Atlantic
as have beed exercised on that, the
same results will follow when popnla-
tioQ becomes denser; it behooves
OS, then, to be wise in time, and ac-
kiK>wledge some higher law than that
provided by an inexorable system of
political economy, if we would be hap-
py. Men and women are not neces-
sarily blind agents of capitalists, mere
creators of a wealth which they do not
share in due proportion to their intelli-
gence and their industry. They are
moral beings, if they would but know
it, if they would but exercise and cul-
tivate their moral powers ; beings ca-
pable of controlling themselves, and, by
enlightened industrial arrangements,
of providing for themselves and for
their neighbors. The tendencies of
Miss Parices are evidently to the for-
mation of joint-stock societies, making
the laborer at once a worker and a cap-
italist. Tills migJu be so contrived
M to fiMm iDother style of «" guild" of

auld lang syne, when Cathol
men protected each other frc
Christian love, and earnest
endeavoring ^o form associa
mutual interchange of kind o£
for encouraging each other in ]
of piety and good will to i
essentially Catholic; it is oi
based on a purely selfish mo
with purely earthly aims, tl
lose their charm and best
We confess that for ourselv
not expect to see any great
ment in the condition of the
whether male or female, in
or elsewhere, by combination
wise, while the cfibrt for
ment is unsu stained by a recu
first principlesi and unbased oi
religious forms and dogmas,
as the vjorid is unchristian it
main selfish^ and the weakest
to the wall, in every form of
tion, whetlier named co-opei
competitive. But once recog
man^s most essential life resid
90uly and that he is bound to
for the wants of that soul as
object, ** guildiT take form an
and the laborer^ rising in dign
forming his labor as an ordii
God, " loving his neighbor as 1
establishes, or may establish,
tions, in which the weaker
protected, and the poor rocog
the representatives of Christ
shall see exemplified on anoth
in speaking of tlie ^ Ratines^ i
by Rosa Govemo, who had be
vant.

Miss Davis's book on the
Education of Woman, is a
more especially to the middle
for whom she requires educa
means of obtaining a liveliho<
discrepancies between the c
accorded to English girls and
greater than those existing
American boys and girls ; s
is much room for improvemen
are too apt to be superficial,
too much, and think too litl
even here in free America, m
be found who dunk they iIm

W9HUOU

419

being usefbl, thoroagb, and
u To such as these we par-
reeommend Miss Davis's book,
fis all such fallacies, and re-
! question of woman's place in
L order, primarily considering
* children of God, members of
nd heirs of the kingdom of

and, secondarily, as wives,

danghters, sisters" (p. 86).
.vis writes modestly, suggest-
ot dogmatically; nseling her
it were at every step. Her
ons are of course English, but
it she says of the necessity of
employment for woman, not
a maintenance but for hedUhy

as a moral and intellectual
ipplicable to every nation, and
d useful hints to any one who
iered seriously on woman's
Hwition and future prospects,
igret that we cannot speak so
r of the tone of Mr. Lud-
iky valuable as is the infonna-
ffords as to what the oollec-
gy of women can effect when
ligious motive is the prompt-
ir actions. The author gives
itive account of the work of
a the church from the time
^Kwtles to the present era,
heir usefulness, their power
Dg their action according to
encies of the day in which
d; the devotedness of the
eaoonesses; the learning of
I, when the world was the
lie Groths and Vandals and
cessors; the intellectual ac-
t characterized the communi-
B the outer world was sunk
rism; the books they spent
19 in copying, and the works
oselves composed. Then he
account of the active orders,
pa, rather associations, as of
ines —

unit renoimcing the society of mea
rineM of life, or rowing poverty,
hMtity; or absolute obedience, yet
at their own homes or in common
a life of prayer, meditation, and
ttfa«w Fteii mentions it as one of
n of the ifo for tha year ISM,

that ' in Germany there rose np an innumera-
ble mulUtade of those continent women who
wish to be called B^golnes, to that exteal
that Cologne was inhabited by more than
1,000 of them.* Indeed, by the latter half
of this century, there seems to have been
scarcely a town of any importance without
them in France, Belgium, Northern Germany,
and SwitzerUnd.'* (P.llS.)

*' The first of these fellowships was com-
posed of wearers of either sex ; and so dili-
gent were they with their work, that their
industry had to be restricted, lest they should
depriro the wearers' ffuilds of thdr bread.
Wholly self-maintidned at first, they rendered
moreover essential serrice in the performanoa
of works of charity. As soon as a B6gum-
age became at all firmly established, Uiers
were almost inrariably added to it hospitds
or asylums for the reception, maintenance, or
relief of the aged, the poor, Uie sick. To
thla purpose were deroted the greater part
of the rerenues of the sisterhood, howerer
acquired, another portion going to the main-
tenance of the common cSupel. The sisters
moreorer reccired young girls to educate;
went out to nurse and console the sick, to
attend death-beds, to wash and lay out the
dead; were called in to pacify family dis-
putes." «*. 118.).

**The B^guines had no community of

Soods, no common purse for ordinary needs,
fercrthelesj, those among them who were
wholly destitute, or broken down with in-
firmities, were maintained at the public ex-
pense, or out of the poor fund ; mendicancy
was never allowed, unless in Uie extremely
rare case of the establishment not being
able to reliere its poorest members.** (P.
120.)

This is refreshing testimony to wo-
man's powers, and were a similar
devoted principle now at work, many
of the problems troubling earnest,
thoughtful female minds might be
solved. ** The striking feature of her
self-maintenance by labor " is a very
valuable evidence, for now that ma-
chinery is called in to Jufy the race,
we cannot believe that under its right-
ful application, Christian women could
efifect less at the present time than
they did in ancient days. A similar
devotedness, a similar idea of the duty
of living for Grod, a similar appreda-
tion of the divine institution of indua*
try as a means of sanctification, would
produce equal or even superior eff'ects,
since intelligence is more diffiised now
than formerly, and mechanical assiat-
aooe mora within the leaeh of Ihe

410

Wimak

many. That which is needed is sim-
ply the spirit of godliness^ and to
him that cuketh this is promised.
Shall we then longer look ^mlj on
the evils that heset the sex, when
the means are at hand to remedy them,
whenever we sincerely wish for them?
Mr. Ludlow proceeds to trace the
educational fellowships, the Ursnlines,
Angustinians, and others. He says
that in the sixteenth century female
orders generally devoted themselves
to education, even when founded on
the old Franciscan basb of manual
labor. Then comes the enumeration
of the charitable sisterhoods, in all
their varied modes of assuaging hu-
man misery or diminishing tempta-
tion to sin ; in all their efforts for suc-
coring the poor, the sick, the infirm,
and for recalling the lost sheep to the
fold. The information contained in
the volume renders the book valuable
in spite of Mr. Ludlow's prejudices,
broadly and oftentimes coarsely ex-
pressed. We dare not repeat his
blasphemies relative to the adoration
of the blessed eucharist, to the vow
of chastity, or to other dogmas ; they
are introduced, as he acknowledges,
to free the author from the impu-
tation of Romanizing tendencies, to
which the involuntary testimony he
bears to the right action of the
church has subjected him. We pity
him, that he did not see the force of
his own evidence, that he was not led
to the truth, rather than to the vilify-
ing it We give but one instance of
the manner he has adopted in order
to prove himself no Romanist ; it will
suffice to show the want of candor
which reigns throughout the book
when the Romish Church is touched
.upon. Having described, con amore,
the institution of the Boguihes as
•* being exempt from almost all the in-
eoQveniences of a convent life" (to
which he appears to entertain an
insuperable objection), he attributes
at first their fall to the jealousy of
the regular congregations. Yet ader
a whUe, the innate force of truth com-
peb him to eonfiBsa that the iostitu*

tion fell by its own fault
fellowships departed from
of their foundation. " In pL
self-supporting industry a
charity which at first cha
them, there crept in the op
these — reliance upon others'
indifference to good works !
plete was the change that
term Beghard, prayer^ sur
our ^beggar,' has come to
clamorous pauperism " (pp.
He continues on another pa<

"But the Begulne sistcrhix
north were too numerous, too
much in harmony with the spirit
and country, too deeply rooted in tl
of th e people, to perish before tl
the council or a papal bull. Kc
was soon seen, did Rome*8 safety ;
they should perish. The existe
brotherhoodM was, indeed, Incona
that of Romanism itself; for evei
ty of men, not bound by rule o
subject to a clerical bead, must b
ty an asylum of free thought,
monastic church with an infallibh
not, without the greatest danger,
terhoods, on the other hand, altho
unbound by vow or rule, migh
tolerated ; since, through the pr!
tor or confessor, generally an es
of the organization of any Begu
could be kept in dependence, tem]
monachism. And thus, paralU
current of censure against Begh
B^guinism as a system, there be
another current of toleration, ai
the danger diminishes, approva
* faithful women who, haTing v
nencc, or even without having tou
honestly to do penance in their h<
serve the Lord of virtues in tl
humility.* "

•The Beguines were finally
from censure by the Counc
stance, 1414 (pp. 139, 14
mind which does not see i
count that one set of Begu
suppressed on account of dis
that the others were retaine(
desire of promoting virtue, ifi
ly blinded by prejudice, noti
ing that he walks, as he say
(p. 139), '' in the brightness o
most blessed name.**

The B6guines, acoordin|
author, were eventuallj mc

frbjnan*

481

iS, or more reguiarly organ-
^0118 bodies, of whom he gives
Bting an account that we can
ler and admire the more that
mt comes, from such a source*
I, howcTer, in the author*8
lotable ignorance of the ^ pur-
ention'* enforced by the church
isry to the sanctification of
)rk6, and this accounts for
sconceptioii on his part. He
when Madame de Miramon,
widow, began her religious
orks of active charity, " her
rchorted her to make a ' re-
' a year, in order to devote
» her own perfection, without
5 her charity toward her
" This Mr. Ludlow styles
haracteristically Romish," in
i must presume he is right,

represents the anti-Romish
I must say, judging by his
re is little apprehension
y that party that "good
3 be acceptable, to be sancti-
the agent, must be >vrought
and therefore that a year
he repression of self-seeking,
' humiliation and self-abase*
;ht be and probably was

to insure that the future
e pious lady should be per-
that " pure intention** which
aw down upon them the
I blessing of divine grace.
Eun to confess that this is, as
leman says, characteristically

and much we rejoice at so
ft characteristic of our faith,
innot follow Mr. Ludlow
U his accounts, wliich we re-
oiore as he gives important
o the fact, that in every age
iich pious women have been
omprehend the needs of the
iich they live, and to asso-
the special purpose of pro-
! assistance necessary. In a

age, when vandalism over-
iman learning, '^ nunneries,
asteries for men, became
r store bouses of learning,
eren centres of intellectual

activity. At the beginning of the
sixth century, the nunnery founded by
St. Cesarius at Aries contained two
hundred nuns, mostly employed in
copying books. Their rule bound
them to learn < human letters* for two
hours a day, and to work in common,
either in transcribing or in female la-
bor** (p. 106). The convents of TounB,
founded in the sixth century by Queen
Radegund, and the Swabian nunnery of
Gaudeshcim, in the latter half of the
tenth century, the glory of female
monachism, were specially centres of
intellectual activity. In the latter
dwelt the poetess Hrotsvitha, herself
not the first authoress of her convent,,
whose Latin plays seem to have
especial attraction for Mr. Ludlow, for
his panegyric is couched in these
words, " Hrotsvitha, at least, was no
hooded Pharisee'* (pp. 119, 111).

During the Crusaides and European
wars, the conmiunities of the Tertia-
rian hospitaller nuns, under various
names, excite his admiration, though
he thinks " the worship of these nuns
may not be the highest and best, bat
it is surely genuine" (p. 142 j. Thanks
even for that admission, Mr. Ludlow.
The B^guines, of whom we have al-
ready spoken, and the educational
nuns spring up at the hour of need,
and for the present day ^ the institute
of ' Rosines* of Turin presents an
interesting feature.'* These latter
have no vows, no seclusion. They
are a genuine working association oi
women, only with a strong relij^ous
element infused in their work. They
were founded by Rosa Governo, who
had been a servant. There Mrs.
Jameson found (see Communion of
Labor) *< nearly four hundred womeni
iiom fifteen years of age upwards,
gathered together in an assemblage of
buildings, where they carry on tailor*
ing, embroidery, especially of military
accoutrements for &e army, weaving,
spinning, shirt-making, lace-makioffy
every trade, in short, in which female
ingenuity is avwUble. They have a
well-kept gaideni a school for the poor
children <? the neighborhood, aa in-

4S3

WOWM/U

firmary, includiDg a ward for the aged,
a capital dispoDsary, with a small
medical library. They are ruled by a
enperior, elected from among them-
selves; the work-rooms are divided
into classes and groups, each under a
monitress. The rules of admission
and the interior regulations are strict ;
any inmate may leave at once, but
cannot be readmitted. Finally, they
arc entirely self-supporting, and have
a yearly income of between 70,000f.
to 80,000f., that is, about from £2,800 to
£3,200. No female organization is
more pregnant with hope than this"
(p. 181). With this we conclude our,
notice of Mr. Ludlow's book, although
he has also accounts of some few
Protestant associations, imitated and
modified from the foregoing.

We cannot but rejoice at so much
welcome testimony, from an outsider,
to the benefits flowing from the female
rcUgious institutions of the church of
Christ, and feel encouraged to believe
that whatever may be the necessities
of tlie times, bands of holy women will
rise up to administer thereunto.

It is refreshing, too, as an evidence
that the gratitude which woman owes
to tlie church, she is willing to repay
in self-devotedness to the wants of the
members of that church. No woman
who has ever reflected for one brief
hour on the emancipation from slavery
that has been wrought for her by the
ministry of the church, can fail to re-
cognize that in the Church alone is her
real protection, her true safety. The
pagan woman — what was she ? You
may see her type in the Eastern ha-
rem, the Hindoo suttee, the Indian
burden-bearer. The few women of
antiquity who broke their chains did
so at a fearful cost. The Aspasias,
the Diotemes, the Semiramises, the
Zenobias, the Cleopatras — alas I a
cloud obscures their greatness; and
even heathenism condemns while it
admires them. Respectable women
were doves ; if not nominally so, yet
slaves in intellect, slaves by inferior
position, slaves through ignorance;
slaves because their $cuU oould find

no scope for exertion. And now what
are the tendencies of the age ? I fear
we must confess that they are purely
materialistic, that they point rather to
the reign of physical power than that
of moral force; and if so, what miut
woman expect save a return in some
shape, modified by existing machineiy,
to the old idea of enslavement under
another name? The laws of the
church are already annulled by so-
ciety in respect of marriage. The
power of easy divorce exists in the
Eastern states, and polygamy flour
ishcs in Utah. These are matters cal-
culated to make Catholic women re-
flect ere they march too readily with
the tendencies of the age. The church,
and the church only, raised the stand-
ard of woman, and that incidentally, bjr
proclaiming that she had a mnd to save,
and that the powers of the soul were
will, memory, and understanding
Christian men were obliged to conoede
to her the exercise of these powers, b/
tiie same authority through which ihtj
claimed the right to exercise them for
themselves. But now, the world is
for the most part not Christian, tod
we must look well to the principles
that it puts forth ; its associatio!is or
co-operations, if founded on a mtrelj
selfish principle, must end in disorder.
It requires the strong religious ele-
ment spoken of by Mrs. Jameson ss
existing among the Rosines, and the
'* pure intention'' which induced Ms-
diuno de Miramon to obey her di^e^
tor and make the yearns retreat be
prescribed, in order that her future
acts might be begun, continued, ind
ended in God, to insure that a oon*
munity life or association shall pn>'
ducc good. That joint-stock oomps-
nies may for a while flourish and coo*
tribute to the wealth of the sharehold*
ers is doubtiess true ; but if the wealth
thus obtained is made merely to cop*
tribute to material enjoyment, it wiH
rather injure than profit the posseiwr,^
whether that possessor be man ^^^
woman. Strong moral power ii P**"*^
duced by exercise, by enduranee,^!
renunciatiooy rather than by |

jtfy H9o JSus.

428

ticm. Strong intellectual power is
produced bj deep thought, head study,
unremitting exertion, as strong phy-
sical power is produced by labor, con-
dnaous activi^, hard fare, and un-
Inznrions habits. We must not lose
sight of these facts when we seek to
hnproTe the condition of either man or
woman ; and desirable as are associa-
tiona for mutoal benefit, we must not
ibi^t that if they are to be perma-
nent, they most aim at something
higher than improving in temporalities.
The union of the natural law with the
topematural law should form the
especial study of every thinking mem-
ber of the church ; and (o women's
associations it seems a study peculiar-
ly desirable, as woman owes her pres-
ent improved condition entirely to the
effects produced by that supernatural
tctkm on her previous condition. If
we might be allowed to suggest a sub-
]«ctof thought to such Catholic women
M tee the evils depicted by Misses
Pktkes and Davis, and wish to as-
Bit in their removal, it would be that
thej should meditate and study the
pncdcal bearing of the ancient asso-
caatioDS of the churdi to mitigate the
then existing evils, and having caught
tibsspirit of devotedness from the many
examples therein presented.

should proceed to consider what form
of devotedness is demanded by the
present needs — and in the spirit of the
church assemble to promote the need-
ful work.

That there is much to be done, all
ipust confess ; but in what way it is to
be done is not altogether so evident
Only tracing from all history ** that
** woman's work in the church" is to
see the difficulties of the times, to en-
ter with warm sympathy into its dis-
tresses, and having purified the human
tenderness with which she is giiled by
casting it into the furnace of divine
love, to direct that tenderness, enlight-
ened by intellectual culture and
strengthened by astatic practice, into
the channels needing assistance. We
can but feel confident that Catholic
women will now as heretofore ponder
over the position of their sex with
regard to labor and intellectual cul-
ture, and that to meet its requirements
such institutions will be formed as
will push forward '* progress" in the
most approved system compatible
with the solemn duties of Catholicity :
that is, uniting the human privilege to
the far higher and loftier privilege
involved in being a member of the
church of Christ

OMOIKAL.

MY TWO MITES.

**Ifab poor widow hath CMt in more than ttioy aU.**

Widowed of the world, that once did me betroth.
Unto the treasury of God brought I,

In after days,
A heart and mind — my all — two mites in worth,
And cast them in: What wealth, if they should buy

Such priceless piaise 1

4S4

JRiOtiBiOMjL

MISCELLANY.

A MoBt Important DUeotery in Pho-
tography. — That photographic produc-
tions cannot be relied upon as penna-
nent appears a fact only too well estab-
lished. The public have been convinced
of it by seeing folios of choice produc-
tions and scores of treasured portraits
pass gradually into ** the sere and yellow
leaf" of their age, and finally disappear.
A few years, more or less, generally
works the change. Photographers, too,
have lost all faith in the absolute perma-
nence of their productions, and have
long been looking for this desirable qual-
ity in some ideal process for which their
experimentalists were industriously striv-
ing and working, and for which they
were most anxiously looking, rather than
to any modification of the old silver pro-
cess, which they have now wrought up
to such a pitch of perfection. This fad-
ing has been pretty clearly shown to be,
at least mainly, due to the action of the
hyposulphites. The print lasts a longer
or shorter time in proportion to the de-
grees in which the fixing agent — hypo-
sulphite of soda — has been removed
firom the paper ; but the slightest trace
of it will assuredly bring about the de-
struction of the photograph. The only
chance of absolute permanence appears
to be in its complete elimination, al-
though even then there are other ele-
ments of evil which may be suspiciously
regarded. We have hitherto relied for
this purpose upon the mechanical action
of water, and some able men have run
counter to the general experience by af-
firming that absolute permanence could
be obtained by proper and sufficient
washing. Mr. Carey Lea, for instance,
asserted, about a year since, that he had
tested properly-washed prints with a
very delicate and certain test for the hy-
posulphites without discovering their
trace, and in prints which he considered
had been properly washed. This test
was that of placing a few drops of an
alcoholic solution of iodine in several
ounces of water, and applying the same
with a cameFs-hair brush to photographs
on starch-sized paper. The presence of
the starch, if freed from the hyposul-
phite by sufficient washing, was indicated

by a violet or purple stain w
solution was applied ; but in p
thus washed the presence of i
sulphite was indicated by the a
such stain, which could be at
moved from the well-washed
plunging it into a solution of
hyposulphite. On the other 1
Dawson, of Ring^s College, in
number of The British Journal
tography, denies the power
washing to give permanencei,
the prints have been soaked
time in hot water so as to remo^
size — even then, supposing tl
non-albumenized, the eliminatio
whole of the hyposulphite is pr
cal." He adds — " Some photo|
we are aware, do treat their pr
a final wash in hot water ; bui
course, although unqucsttonabl
cive to the permanence of the pr
not remove the whole of the
which the hyposulphite is loc
and if it did, tne paper would 1
tie cohesive as blotting-paper,
prints would lose much in vi
brilliancy. In the case of prir
bumen, or albumenized paper, h
we may reasonably suppose, has
powerful effect in removing hyp<
from albumen than cold water, if
it has so much ; and it can on
acting on the texture of the paf
and removing the size therefron
can exercise a beneficial influenc
To demonstrate the truthfulnei
ideas on this subject, some prin
had been washed in cold runnii
and with the utmost care and a
for over twenty hours — and \
drippings from which, when sul
the tincture of iodirife test, disp
trace of the hyposulphite — wer«
mented with, and still gave up t
water, in which they were st<
least one-fortieth part of a grai
destructive clement to the half
paper, clearly showing that
water had not really removed
though it had eliminated all Iha
reach or had influence over
whether Mr. Dawson and his si
or Mr. Lea and his supportom

Ihw PMicationg,

425

photographs fade so unlyersally
they are rarely or never suffi-
rashed afler the process of fix-
ecanse it is impossible to remove
of the hyposulphites from the
r washing, it is certain that they
and few dispute th«) final cause
I fading. Therefore, a discovery
istroys these mischievous agents
BT cannot but be regarded as
portant, and such a discovery it
leasing duty to announce as hav-
i recently published by Dr. An-
th, F.R.S., in the pages of The
Journal of Photography, from
e quote : " Considering that the
the destruction ot photographs,
tly by the action of time only,
reality caused by the amount of
phit« remaining in the paper, D.
of Darmstadt, contrived a mode
ing it out by centrifugal force,
eating the presence of sulphur
) used a small galvanic arrange-
h one cell, and decomposing the
I the sulphur 4hrown on a piece
led silver, whiqh became readily
d in the solutibn. Dr. Theodore
my assistant, examined several
otog^phs for me by his brothcr^s
irhich, however, appeared unne-
delicate, as it was found tliat
ant of sulphur was very large,
;hly, we thought, in proportion
mount of decay. I did not de-
low much was hyposulphite and
ih sulphate. As I had been in-
myself in bringing into use
the remarkable properties of
of hydrogen in oxidizing metals
oic bodies in fluids, it seemed to

me that 47e might readily use it for oxi-
dizing the hyposulphites. I am suppos-
ing that the sulphate alone will not be
injurious." Dr. Smith then shows how
this powerful, oxidizing agent may be
used to convert the mischievous hypo-
sulphites into the innocuous sulphate,
and Mr. Dawson, in the same number of
the journal, gives the following experi-
mental illustration : ^^ Dissolve in a wine-
glass any quantity of sulphate of soda,
and add to the solution a few drops of
tincture of iodine. The solution will re-
main permanently discolored, showing
that sulphate of soda does not dissolve
iodine. In another wine-glass, half filled
with plain water, drop sufficient tincture
of iodine to strike a permanent dark
sherry color throughout the liquid ; then
add, drop by drop, a weak solution of
hyposulphite of soda till the color is dis-
charged, taking care to add as little ex-
cess of hyposulphite as possible. So fkr
this experiment shows that iodine ia
soluble in hyposulphite of soda. Now,
fill up the glass with an aqueous solution
of peroxide of hydrogen, and observe the
eifccts. After a few minutes the iodine
is no longer held in solution, and the
liquid will resume the dark sherry color
it had before adding the hyposulphite of
soda." Every chemist will readily ex-
plain this. To apply this new chemical
agent to this new use, take the print,
after fixing and washing, and soak it for
a short time in a solution of the peroxide
of hydrogen of the strength of say one
ounce of a ten-volume solution in forty
ounces of water. — Popular Science Ei-
view.

ORiaiXAL.

NEW PUBLICATIONS

I. Letter op the Second Ple-
CoiwciL OP Baltimore. The
ihops and Bishops of the United
in Plenary Council Assembled,
I Clergy and Laity of their
Baltimore: John Murphy
8vo pamphlet For sale by
loe, New York.

I the first official utterance of
tbishops and Bishops of the
iiteg in Plenary Council assem-
the derg^ and laity of their
As 8ach it will be listened to

with an attention due to the importance
of the subjects on which it speaks, and to
the character and motives of the auffust
assembly from which it proceeds. It is
the warning voice of the shepherds of the
people, raised afler long and matured
deliberation to remind the fiock of its
duties, pointing out the dangers which
threaten, the quarters from which they
spring, and the means by which they are
to be avoided. It is the herald of that
full legislation which in a few montiM
will be promulgated for the Catholics of
the United States. The oatllnes of that

426

New IhMeatiom.

legislation aro traced with rapid pen in
this document ; the details, which have
been already filled in, will, after having
received the approval of Rome, be pre-
sented to the public stamped with the
seal of the Fisherman. The great object
of this Pastoral Address is to impress
upon the minds and hearts of Catholics
those cardinal principles and duties of
cheerful obedience to the divinely consti-
tuted authority of the ^ bishops placed
to rule the Church of God f* in order that
when the decrees of the Council are pub-
lished, all — bishops, priests, and the laity
— may co-opcrato in heart and hand in giv-
ing them practical effect ^2^ are members
of the same mystical body of Christ, the
Church ; and therefore all should in Uicir
respective positions and functions unite
in harmonious action for the well-being
of the whole, according to the order es-
tablished by the divine head and founder.
** For there are diversities of ministries,
but the same Lord ; and diversities of
operations, but the same God, who
worketh in all ; and hath set the mem-
bers every one of them in the body as
it hath pleased him" (Cor. xii. 1).

Such being the object of the Pastoral
Letter, it very naturally commences
(Sec. L) with the "Authority of Plenary
Councils;" and (Sec. 11.) with ** Ecclesi-
astical Authority " in its general rela-
tions, and with the correlative obedience
thereto binding on the Christian con-
sdenco. As human policy and human
action have, oven in secular matters,
their religious as well as their civil as-
pects, the principles are laid down
which mark out the boundary line be-
tween the civil and ecclesiastical powers
(Sec IIT.); a boundary line which not-
withstanding the experience and lessons
of past centuries, is often obliterated or
lost sight of. After having, in brief and
emphatic language, called attention to
these general truths relating to authority
and consequent obedience founded on the
natural and divine laws, the episcopal
legislators devote several sections to the
more prominent questions and wants
which affect tlie Catholic Church in the
United States. Sec. IV. calls attention
to the afliicied condition of the Pope and
to the obligation incumbent on his
spiritual subjects, for whom he daily
prays and works, of relieving him. Sec.
V. to the ^'Sacrament of Matrimony,"
that great and sacred link by which
society is in its nearest and dearest as-
sociations held together, but which is so

much exposed to be seyercd, if not
wholly destroyed, in our days. Sec VL
to the press, that giant engine for good
or for evil, wielded, alas I with such fatal
efficacy against the faith and morals of
the *' little ones and the weak ones'* of
the fold, and yet which, properly directed
might be made the instrument moM
powerful for truth ind for good. See:
ViL deals with the '' education" of
youth, on which indeed the future of
society and religion depends. Sec. VIIL
with the subject of '* Catholic Protecto-
ries and Industrial Schools.'' Sec OL
with the necessity of cultivating ''voo-
tinns" in che ministry. Sees. X. ind
XI. are addressed, respectively, to thi
** Laity "and the "Clergy." Sec XE
points to the condition of tho cmanciptt-
ed slaves, and to the means to bo used
by the Church in ameliorating it. Sec
XI 11. glances at those most favored
spots in the bosom of the Church, where
the sun shines most brightly, and the
fairest lilies spring to be woven as a or-
land in her triumphant crown— to "fie>
ligious Communities." The ''conclo-
sion " epitomizes the whole by saying:

" We have taken advantage of the oppoiti-
nity of the assembling of so large a naobcr
of bishops from every part of our vast coos-
try, to enact such decrees as will tend to pn^
mote uniformity of discipliue and pnctiee
among us, and to do away with such im-
perfect observance of the rites and appR)Ted
ceremonies of the church as may have been
made necessary by the circumstances of (■<
times, but which no length oi prescript
can ever consecrate, and thus to give the leT'
vices of our religion that beauty and digni-
ty which belong to them, and for whieh te
should all be so zealous.

" For the furtherance of these importmi
objects, we have caused to be drawn up a
clear and compendious series of statemeatt
upon the most essential points of faith and
morals, with which we have embodied the
decrees of the seven Provincial OouDcili at
Jialtimore, and of the first Plenary CooboIi
together with the decrees enacted by ni i>
the present Council, which, when they hsve
been examined and approved of by the Holv
Sec, will form a compendium of eccleiiiew
law for the guidance of our cleigT i> ^
exercise of their holy ministry.

" The result of our labors, when thus reten-
ed to us, will be promulgated more fbDYh
our Provincial Councils and Diocesan S,nm
and we will then take advantage of the ef
portunity to bring more fully omlertheBOBrt
of the clergy, and the people oonnitted IB
our pastoral charge, the details of what «i
have done, and the exact nature of the BlM*

New pMieatiau,

1 yn hope to give increaBed eflSoiencj
hole prkcUoM BjBtem of the church
^ootry.

uiTe mlso recommended to the Holjr
motion of seyeral additional episco-
ind ▼icariates apostolic, which are
Bcesaary by our rapidly increaang
population and the great territorial
' many of oar present dioceses."

*n not become us to review, bat
direct attention to this most re-
le and important document. Ab-
r from tho authority of those
iiom it emanates, and viewed
18 the pronouncement of so many
itinguished for learning, ezpe-
ftnd pietjT, it will be read with
dl consiaeration by the educated
of our community, whether
} or Protestant On the former,
*, it has a higher and holier claim
e legislative exponent of those
id to keep garrison on the watch-
>f Israel, to give timely warning
!r, from whatever part of the ho-
approaches, to lead and guide
tifteir journey through this earth-
t to the promised land of heaven.
i of the plenary councils (for in-
>f Africa about the time of St. Cyp-
»f St Augustine, or of Asia before
St John Chrysostom) a greater
of bishops were assembled. In
councils, too, weightier matters
re come under consideration ; as,
mple, doctrinal questions at the
A Orange, not, however, to be
lettled without the after-sanction
ifidlible Church. But never, we
ntare to say, has any provincial
in other parts of the church been

legislate for so vast a territory,
joestions of discipline and prao-
wting the present and future
ts of a population so widespread
raried in its origin, its habits, and
oitB. Some of the bishops trav-
' sea and land over thousands of
od were heard to fiusetiously say
a they had come so far it were a
ting to step across and see the

£>me." They were all, as we
d, picked men, ** chosen among
Is** of learned and pious priests ;

1 solely by the motive of doing
i their collective prudence suf-
fer theiir people. Hence their

OQ questions with which the^

practically acquainted in their

re dioiceaea, merit to be heard

\ with the deepest respect

Doctrinal matters were not discussed at
Baltimore; these are reserved for the
supremo authority of general councils
and of the Holy See. But practical rem-
edies are suggested for social and moral
evils in a quiet, calm, and steady tone,
which sounds upon the ears of Catholics
like the voice of the Holy Spirit, and
wakens in the hearts of the well-minded
children of the church an echo such as
we may imagine the gentle voice of the
divine Master to have awakened in those
who listened to his sermon on the
mount The council does not confine
itself to the enunciation of general prin-
ciples, but enters into minute, practical
details on each subject Had we space
we would wish to quote much ; but we
confine ourselves to what it says on the
section on the press :

" We cheerfully acknowledge the services
the Catholic press has rendered to religion,
as also the disinterestedness with which, in
most instances, it has been conducted, al-
though yielding to publishers and editors a
very insufficient return for their labors. We
exhort the Catholic community to extend to
these publications a more liberal support, in
order that they may be enabled to become
more worthy the great cause they advocate.

" We remind them that the power of the
press is one of the most striking features of
modem society; and that it is our duty to
avail ourselves of this mode of*making
known the truths of our religion, and re-
moving the misapprehensions which so gen-
erally prevail in regard to them.

** In connection with this matter we ear-
nestly recommend to the faithful of our
charge the Catholic Publication Society, late-
ly established in the city of New York by a
scealous and devoted clergyman. Besides tho
issuing of short tracts, with which this so-
ciety has begun, and which may be so use-
fully employed to arrest the attention of
many whom neither inclination nor leisure
will allow to read larger works, this soci-
ety contemplates the publicatien of Catho-
lic books, according as dronmstances may
permit and the interests of religion appear
to require. From the judgment and good
taste evinced in the composition and aeleo-
tion of such tracts and books as have al-
ready been issued by this society, we are
encouraged to hope that it will be eminent-
ly effective in making known the truths of
our holv religion, and dispelling the prcjo-
diccs which are mainly owing to want of
information on the part of so many of oar
fellow-dtixens. For this it is necesaarvtbal
a generous oo-operatlon be given, both bv
clergy and laity, to the undertakings wfaidi
is seoood to none In Importaiiee tmoDg tiie

428

Ntw PuUicaJtiomi^

sabsidiary aids which the inyentions of mod-
em times supply to our miDistry for the dif-
fusion of Catholic truth."

Curious Questions. By Rev. Henry A.
Brann, D.D. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 272.
Newark, N. J. : J. J. O'Connor & Co.,
59 and 01 New street. 18GG.

This attractive-looking, well-printed
volume reflects great credit on the enter-
prise and taste of the publishers, who,
we hope, will be rcwanled and encour-
aged by an extensive sale. We may
remark, by the way, that some of our
publishers would do well to imitate the
Messrs. O'Connor in their style of bind-
ing and lettering, which is ne^t and
tasteful but perfectly plain. The flashy
style of late adopted in some cases is
in most wretched taste, especially when
the book treats of grave and serious
topics; and it is especially displeasing
to all scholars. The only fault in the
mechanical execution of the book before
us is, that the margin of the page is
somewhat too large.

The book itself treats of much more
weighty and important topics than the
title would suggest It is an analysis
and resume of some of the principal
topics treated of in our pliilosophical
text-books. The author has studied at-
tentively and with understanding, and
has presented us with an abstract of his
studies, expressed in a clear, terse, and
methodical style. There are, neverthe-
less, occasional infelicities of diction,
which could easily be corrected, and
which are pardonable in a young and
unpractised author. The use of the
word "conscience" for consciousness
appears to us decidedly objectionable,
add likely to mislead the English reader
not familiar with the Latin word " con-
scientia," of which it is too verbal a
translation. Such an expression as *' se-
cundum quid beings" is awkward and
quite unnecessary. The same word
sometimes recurs too frequently for eu-
phony, and some sentences are careless-
ly constructed or unfinished. These
faults are, however, comparatively slight
and infrequent, and do not enter into
the texture of the stylo and diction i^
self, which is of good and serviceable
fabric.

The author follows the school of Pla-
to, St Augustine, Gerdil, Leibnitz, Gio-
berti, and tho modem ontologisto, Uk.

ing tho Abb^ Branchcreau as his more
immediate guide. The general princi-
ples and drift of the system of philoM*
phy contained in the prelections of the
last-named author we regard as somid,
and we are tlierefore well plea.*^ to sn
this system in part reproduced by one
who has mastered it, and has alf^) illus-
trated it from his studies in other au-
thors. There is a certain confusion and
incompleteness, however, in the state-
ments and explanations of 31. Branch^
reau upon one or two important pointg,
and the same reappears in the work be
fore us. One of these points relates to
the activity of the intellect in its intui-
tion of being. M. Branchereau does oot
speak distinctly upon the point, but Dr.
Brann expresses tho opinion that the
intellect is active, in contradiction toGi-
oberti. If by this is meant tlut the in-
tellect has an active power to originate
the intuition of infinite, eternal, neces-
sary being, wo apprehend that conse-
quences might bo deduced from this
statement not in accordance with the
Catholic doctrine. Another point relatei
to the universals, or genera and spedeti
On this point tho language both of K.
Branchereau and of our author seems
not to bo sufliciently precise and accu-
rate to guard against the appearance of
maintaining the untenable proposition
that genera and species are contained in
God.

There is one more point of very ^reit
importance, where our author has cither
misapprehended the doctrine of the great
writers of whose system he is the ex-
positor, or has intentionally deviated
from it, and, as we tliink, without due
consideration. He maintains (p. 255)
that material substance is radically spir-
itual and intelligent Leibnitz, who is
followed by a great number of the ablest
philosophers of our da}*, taught that the
ultimate components of matter are siip*
pie and indivisible, and so far simUirin
essence to spiritual substances. Bnn-
chereau has very ably sustained this doc*
trine in his philosophy, and we regard this
portion of his treatise as one of themoi^
valuable of his contributions to science.
He draws the line, however, in common
with all other Catholic writers irith
whom we are acquainted, sliarply id^
distinctly between material and spirit-
ual substances, as, we think, sound phi*
losophy requires. The theorr of onr .
author opens tho way to the Darwiniin
theory of the evolution of all the uA-

New PMieaiiant.

429

he universe from identical ulti-
ments. We think ho would have
more judgment by abstaining
e expression of an immature
ton of his own on such an ex-
difficult and abstruse question,
less of positive assertion^ and a
re diffidence of manner, and def-
ioward others, throughout the
olumo, would bo more graceful
thor just at the outset of his ca-
>ecially as he is treating of those
I and momentous questions
sk and often bafHe the mightiest
5t veteran leaders in the intel-
'arfare.

5 finished the ungracious part
•itical task, we take pleasure in
ir judgment, that the design of
or in the work before us is ono
raiseworthy, and the manner of
ition such as to make it really
to the class of readers he has

It is worthy of their attentive
and could not fail to benefit
they would read and consider
are. It is an exposition of prin-
id doctrines in philosophy far
K>under, and more satisfactory
tcllect than. is usually found in
ish language ; and makes acces-
hose who are unacquainted with

Catholic authors a portion of
sure of thought which is locked
itn out of the reach of the ma-
even e<lucated men. We should
ive this book read by our stu-
d literary men generally, and
our professors of metaphysics
lieges of the United States. It

the outlines of a system far
to that jejune psychologism of
tish school which is usually
id ought to be welcome to those

in search of something more
; will also be valuable to stu-
philosophy in our own colleges
panion to their text-books, as
> English readers generally who
te and capacity for relishing
ittcn on philosophical 8ubjccL<».
it success and a large circula-
we trust the author will con-
contributions to literature and

THOBSHIP or TH8 WoRKS OF

(FEARE. By Nathaniel Holmes.
12rao, pp. 601. New York:
} HougfatoiL 186ft.

Mr. Holmes attempts, in this finely
printed volume from the Riverside Press,
to prove that the works of Shakespeare
are not Shakespeare's, but Francis
Bacon's. His argument is : Shakespeare
did not write them because he could not ;
Francis Bacon, my lord Verulam, did
write them because he could. To which
it may be replied: Shakespeare could
write them, because he did; Bacon did
not, because he could not That Bacon
could not, is evident from the character
of the man and what we know of his
acknowledged writings; that Shake-
speare did is the uniform tradition fVom
their first appearance down to the pres-
ent, and must bo presumed until the
contrary appears.

Mr. Holmes has proved, what all com-
petent judges have always held, that the
author of the works received as Shake-
speare's must have had more learning and
greater scientific and linguistic attain-
mentSf than his biographers supposed
Shakespeare to have had, but has not
proved that he must have had more than
Shakespeare might have had. Few per-
sons capable of appreciating the wonder-
ful productions attributed to Shakespeare
can doubt that he was up to the scien-
tific lore of his age; knew enough of
Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and per-
haps Spanish, to read and understand
works written in those languages ; had
some general knowledge of medicine;
was familiar with many of the technical-
ities of English law; was a profound
philosopher, with more than an ordinary
knowledge of Christian theology and
morals. But who can say that Shake-
speare might not have had all the learn-
ing and science here supposed ?

We in reality know next to nothing
of the facts of Shakespeare's life. We
know the place and date of his birth and
death, the age at which he was with-
drawn from the grammar-school, and of
his marriage ; we know that he was in
London about the age of thirty, where
he chiefly resided till within two or three
years of his death, as an actor, play-
wright, manager, and a large stockhold-
er in a London theatre. These, and
some few business transactions and his
retirement, after bavins accumulated a
handsome property, to nis native place,
where his fkmily appear to have resided,
constitute nearly ful that we know of
William Shakespeare outside of his
works ; and in these facts there is nothing
that proTes it impossible or eren diflOcnlt,

480

New PuWcaUom.

with the genius, ability, and quickness
the author of Shakespeare's works must
hare had, for him to acquire all the learn-
ing and science those works indicate in
their author.

Ben Jonson says Shakespeare had
"little Latin and less Greek, but Jon-
son was a pedant, and his assertion meant
simply no more than that ho was not
profoundly or critically learned either as
a Greek or Latin scholar ; and there is no
necessity of supposing that he was.
Latin and Greek were taught in the
grammar-schools of his time, and as it is
said he was fourteen when called home
from school, it is no violent supposition
to suppose that he learned enough while
at school to read and understand Latin
and Greek books, at least sufficiently for
his purposes as a poet We know not
how or where he spent the sixteen years
between leavinc school, or the twelve
years between his marriage and his ap-
pearance in London, but he might, for
aught wo know, have easily acquired
during those 3'ears all the learning and
knowledge of modern languages indi-
cated by his earliest plays. It could not
take a man of his genius and ability
many weeks' study to master as much of
law and medicine as his works indicate ;
and as to his theology and metaphysics,
we must remember that he lived before
Bacon, Ifobbes, and Locke had enfeebled
theology and philosophy in the English
mind, and obliterated from the memory
of Englishmen all traces of Catholic tra-
dition. Shakespeare, if not a Catholic
himself, had been trained to a greater or
less extent in Catholic principles, and he
rarely, if ever, deviates m his philosophy,
his tlieology, or theoretic morals from
Catholic tradition, still in his time re-
tained to a great extent in spite of Prot-
estantism by the main body of the Eng-
lish people.

Bearing in mind that Shakespeare
wrote his pla3's for the stage, to be acted,
and that he used without scruple any
materials from whatever quarter gather-
ed that he could lay his hands on, there
is nothing wonderful in their production,
except tlio unrivalled genius of their au-
thor. There are many self-educated
men, even in our own country, who in
the learning and science acquired from
the study of books equal Sliakespeare,
but in that which comes from within no
one self-educated or university-educated
has ever equalled him ; and not unlike-
ly the &ct that hia genius had neyer

been cramped by the pedi

the university, nor bis t

away in learning minutiao th

into play in practical life, s

student forgets as soon as

into the world, was in hia

advantage — at least no disac

But we cannot foi^ive tb

his sacrilegious attempt to

glory of Shakespeare to Fr>

a different and altogether

man. Shakespeare was in!

rior to Bacon. Even if Bao

great enough to write S!

plays — of which there is nc

lie was not philosopher enoi

Shakespeare is always in ace

best philosophical tradition 1

down from the ancients t

fatiiers and doctors of the

well as with the dictates ol

and common sense ; Bacon b

ture with tradition, and pla

phy on the declivity to sensi

terialism, whose logical term

versal nullity. Shakespear

phy is Catholic, Bacon's is

and has produced the same

science that ProtestanUam

gion and morals. There is :

in the spirit and tone of tl

Their morale is quite differc

may have been blameless

Shakespeare, if he sinned, i

high spirits, joviality, he

while Bacon sinned, we knoi

didness, and left his name st

the infamy that belongs to a

takes bribes. Bacon, intec

not, has favored modem dou

belief, while Shakespeare cru

cipient doubt of his age in

in several other of his pla

could never have said with I

ism is better, socially and

than superstition. But em

Holmes deserves no thanks

has done, and we do not th:

has proved his theory is n<

theory."

Familiar Lkcturbs oh Sen
JBCTS. By Sir John Heracfa
and New York : Alexander

This volume contains, am
essays on the Sun, Earthquak
canoes. Comets, Celestial M«
Light, Force, and Atoms. 1
although upward of

Sew PMicatiinu.

481

ill writes with the enthusiasm,
ind spnghtliness of ajoune yotary
Doe, and of course with uie pro-
% range of thought, weight of
snt, and yastness of learning be-
I only to one who has grown gray
otific studies. The topics he dis-
are among the most important and
(ting in science. To their absorb-
irinsic interest is added the charm
John HerscheVs method and style
^ition. In literary merit and
r of style this series of lectures
Is any of the productions of the
Bors of physical science with which
e acquainted, and is equal to our
iDglish classics. There is a pleas-
liyfulness also about the ancient
lomer, which must have made his
M, as he deliyercd them, most
tfal to listen to. The religious and
tone of the lectures is elevated
rhdesomo. Without any set and
I attempts at moralizing or preach-
M illustrious author naturally and
ly presents, on fitting occasions, the
itible eridence afforded by the stu-
08 order of the universe of the
e wisdom and goodness of God.
few disparaging remarks about
He superstition occur in his pages ;
ot 80 many as we frequently meet
in similar works by English Prot-
8, who seem to be incapable of
ning for a very long time from
fiivorite amusement— one which
1 much popularity with the Eng-
tblic as the national game of *'Aunt

withstanding these little specimens
Sious squibbery, which can do no
to any intelligent Catholic, whether
ir adult, we recommend this book
iOftlially to all our readenr. It is a
Klvantage and pleasure to those in-
nt and educated readers who have
id time or opportunity to study
fie text-books, to have the grand
! of science placed before them in
iUigible and readable form. We

think of anything more desirable
) interests of general education,

complete series of lectures, like
f the volume before us, on all the
al topics of the several grand divi-
r physical science. The field of
dge is now so vast, and includes
f distinct, richly cultivated enclos-
lat even students must confine
Itcs to the thorough study of a
eialties. Yet^ education ought to

include a general survey of the universal
domain of knowledge. Therefore, it
becomes important to have generaliza-
tions, compendiums, the condensed
cream of science, prepared by the hands
of masters in the several branches of
knowledge. We are grateful to Sir
John Herschel for devoting his old age
to the task of makfng the sublime dis-
coveries of astronomical science in-
telligible to ordinary readers. His
charming volume should be in every
library, and read by every one who
takes pleasure in solid knowle(^ com-
municated in the dearest and most
agreeable manner.

The Rise and the Fall; ob. The
Origin of Moral Evil. In three
parts. Part I. The Suggestion of
Reason. IL The Disclosure of Rev-
elation. III. The Ck>nfirmation of The-
ology. New York: Uurd k Hough-
ton. 1866.

A very thoughtful, sensible, calmly
written book, pervaded by a high tone of
moral and religious sentiment The
modest, anonymous author may be call-
ed an orthodox Protestant semi-ration-
alist He takes Scripture as furnishing
certain revealed data on which the indi-
vidual reason must construct a rational
theorem of religion. Revelation, as ap-
prehended by the individual reason, be-
ing a variable quantity, of course dog-
mas are reduced to mere hypothesis
more or less probable, according to the
force of the argument which sustains
them. We have, accordingly, about as
ingenious and plausible an hypothesis
of original sin as any one can well make
who docs not begin with the true con-
ception as given him by the Catholic
dogma. The author's hypothesis is, that
Adam, having been created in the intel-
lectual, but not in the moral order, was
elevated to the moral order through his
own act, thereby contracting a liability
to sin as incidental to moral liberty,
which he transmitted togetiier with Uie
moral nature to his posterity. In this
way sin entered into the world through
Adam, not by an imputation or infusion
of his sin into Ms descendants, but as an
incidental consequence of the transfer of
human nature into the sphere of moral
obligation. The transgression of Adam
and Eve the author considers not to
havo been a sin at all» but an act with-

488

S€w PMleaHaiu.

out any moral character, like that of a
young child climbing to the roof of a
house ; a bold experiment which the in-
experience of infant ma^ led him to haz-
ard without regard to the unknown con-
sequences.

We consider the effort to determine
the questions discussed by the author,
from the data admitted by him, to be as
impossible a task as to calculate the dis-
tance of a fixed star which makes no
parallax. The oscillation of the ground,
of the building, and of the instrument
used by the astronomer, and the appar-
ent or proper motions of the stars, may
deceive him by an apparent parallax,
from which he will make a plausible but
illusory calculation. The application
suggests itself. >Ve have already dis-
cussed the same qucHtions, from the
data furnished by revealed Catholic dog-
mas, and are now engaged in discussing
them in the series of articles entitled
" Problems of the Age ;" and it is, there-
fore, supcrfluons to enter here into a new
discussion of the same topics.

We are glad to see these questions
discussed, and always read with interest
what is written by a candid, earnest,
well-informed, and able writer like the
author of this book. With many of his
views we cordially agree, and recognize
the justice, force, and beauty of many
of his observations. We like him par-
ticularly for his clear views of the good-
ness and justice of God, the freedom of
man, the negative character of evil, the
worth and excellence of moral virtue ;
and for his denial of ph3'sical depravity,
of a dark, inevitable doom preceding all
personal existence or accountability, and
similar fatalistic doctrines of the old
Protestant theological systems. While,
however, the moderate rationalism of the
author avails so far as to refute certain
■ systems or doctrines which are contrary
to reason, and to furnish certain frag-
mentary portions of a better system, it
is not sufficient to make a complete syn-
thesis between reason and revelation.
Catholic philosophy alone is competent
to achieve this mighty and, indeed, su-
perhuman task.

The PniLosoPHT or the Conditioned,
comprising some remarks on JSir
William Hamilton's Philosophy and
on Mr. J. S. MilVs Examination of
that Philosophy. By II. L. Mansel,

B.D., WaTnflete Profess<
and Motapnysical Philoso
Univcrsitv of Oxford. L
New-York: Alexander Stn

The philosophy of Sir Wil
ton has been the subject of a
controversy for some time
and Scotland. It has been at
two opposite sides — some of t
critics upon it having been
pupils of the distinguishc
baronet, whose system they 1
taken to combat. On the oi
Calderwood has assailed it, ;
in affirming the principle o
respecting ideal truth, and oi
Mr. Mill, as affirming too d
the same principle. These as
called out other champions ii
their great master, among
Manselis one of the most a
Those who desire to know w
said in favor of the Hamilton
will find this volume wortl
perusal. The author bring
no mean ability, and very g(
to his task. We are no adm
system he undertakes to defci
less of that of his antagonist
we regard as inadequate to the
exists of a true Christian phik
second as subverting the ve
all philosophy and all religion
controversy our sympathy a:
are given to the Oxford pro es
who is striving to uphold th
God and the Christian revela
with insufficient weapons. Wc
very much that is admirable ii
portions of his essay.

It is needless to say any thin
of Mr. Strahan^s publications
the beauty of their mechanical
is concerned. The volume be
j)erfect specimen of British typ
art, just such a book as delig)
of the literary amateur.

BOOBS JtRCDVXD.

From Uie Author : *' The IJfe of Sii
Liberator o' Colombia nn«i Poru, FaUin
of BuHvU : careHilIy wrUtrn from auUi
I>ubli9hetl documeiiU." Bjr Doctor Fellp

ol. 1. 8vo., pp. 410.

Anniversary ArMrew and Poem, dell
the tf«)cletjr of the Alaninl of the DcTroll
AuKUit 8iHh. lim. AddreM by U. IE
by AlUs M. P. Duchanan.

Prom the American Xewi Compan:
Wrecked." A Korel, by Henry Moribr

THE

ATHOLIO WORLD

VOL. IV, NO. 22.-^ANlTABT, 1867.

A CHRISTMAS SONG.

A CA.itOL of joy, a carol of joy,
For the glorioufl Chriatmas time ;

While the heavens rejoice and the earth is glad.
Let the merry bells sweetly chime.

Let us seek the crib where our Saviour lies-
See, the shepherds are kneeling there ;

Let us offer, with Mary and Joseph,
Our worship of love and prayer.

A carol of praise, a carol of praise,

With the angels let us sing ;
Let us welcome with notes of rapturous Joy

Our Saviour, our God and King.
Oh ! would we could offer him worthy gifts,

Oh ! would that our hearts could love,
With some equal return, the Holy Child,

Who for us left liis throne above I

A carol of joy, a carol of joy,

Let the whole eiirth gladly shout ;
She has waited long for this promised day.

Let the glorious song flow out.
A carol of praise, a carol of joy.

Let us sing for the Christmas time.
While the heavens rejoice and the earth is glad,

And the merry bells sweetly chime.

TOb XT. S8

CharU) amd FkOamikrepf.

OBIGOIAL.

CHAEITT AND PHILAMTHROPT.

There is no denying that our age,
in its dormant tendency, places philan-
thropy above charity, and holds it
higher praise to call a man philanthro-
pic than to call him charitable. In its
eyes charity is to philanthropy as a
part to the whole, and consists, chiefly,
in giving the beggar a penny or send-
ing him to the poor-house, and in
treating error and sin with even more
consideration than truth and virtue.
Could anything better indicate the dis-
tance it has fallen below the Christian
thought, or its failure to grasp the
principle of Christian morals ?

Philanthropy, according to the ety-
mology of the word, is simply the love
of man ; charity, according to Chris-
tian theology, is the love of God, and
of man in God. Philanthropy is sim-
ply a natural human sentiment; charity
i% a virtue, a supernatural virtue, not
possible without the assistance of grace
— the highest virtue, the sum and per-
fection of all the virtues, the fulfil-
ment of the whole law, the bond of
pcrfectncss which likens and unites us
to God ; for God is charity, Deus est
caritas. It does not exclude but in-
cludi^s tlie love of man, our neighbor
or our brother; " for if any man say, I
love God and hatcth his brother, he is
a liar. For if he loveth not his bro-
ther, whom he sceth, how can he love
God, whom he seeth not ?** Whoever
loves God must necessarily love his
brother, for Lis brotlier is included in
God, as the effect in the cause, and
he who loveth not his br ther proves
clearly tiicrcby tliat he doth not love
God. But charity, though it includes
philanthropy, is as nmch superior to it
ma God is to man.

The natural sentiments arc all good
in their origin and design, as mucu so
ainoe as before the fall; and man

would be worthless witl
would be a monster, not a
in tliemselves they are b
one tends, when left to
become exdusive and ex
hence comes that intenu
anarchy, or war of oonfii
ments uf which we are all
conscious, and in which <
life's tragedies. Even wh
ed, restrained, and directec
derstanding, as they all i
they are not even then mc
meriting praise. Moral
rational act, an act of fre
for the sake of the end pi
the law of Grod ; but in the
there is no free will, except
itig and directing them, an<
in them only as the sun
rain falls, the winds blow, i
nings flash. There may
and goodness in them, as ii
of nature, but there is no
cause the spring of all
action is the indulgence i
tion of the sentiment itself,
to do our duty, or to obey
which we are morally boui
Indeed, what most offend
perhaps all ages — and for i
tlie greatest horror, is dul
ence ; for duty implies thai
our own, and, therefore, a
to dispose of ourselves as
and obedience implies a
lord and master, who ha
to oixlcr us. It, therefore,
to work and racks its braii
a morality that excludes
exacts no such hateful tlun
ence. It has found oat tl
nobler to act from love thai
and to do a thing becai
prompted to do it hj our
because God, in hia hm, o

Okariiy and FhUanAropf,

48b

h other words, it Ls nobler, more
mora], to act to please ourselves, than
h is to act to please Grod. This passes
ibr excellent philosophy, and you may
hear it in conyersation of many young
misses just from boarding-school, read
it in most popular novels and maga-
anes, and be edified by it from the
pulpit of more than one professedly
Christian denomination.

This philosophy sets the so-called
heart above the head, that is, it distin-
gmshes the heart from the understand-
ing and will, and places it, as so dis-
rinsmahed, above them. Hence we
m the tendency is to treat faith,
nnddered as an intellectual act, and
eoueqaently the Christian dogmas,
with great indifierence ; and to say, if
the heart is right, it is no matter what
one believes, and, it may be added, no
jnttter what one does. What one does
ii of little consequence, if one only has
he sentiments, warm and gushing feel-
BSS- Jack Scapegrace is a liard drink-
Cff a gambler, a liar, a rake, and seldom
IpMi near a church ; but for all that he
■ s right down good fellow — ^has a
wynn heart. He gives liberally to the
■ittionary society, and makes large
pnchaaes at charity fairs. Hence a
food heart, which at best means only
pid sensibilities, and which is per-
^ctly compatible with the grossest self-
Uulgence, and the most degrading
lod mbous vices, constimtes the sum
■nd sobstance of religion and moral-
^Tiatooes for the violation of every
Pvcoept of the Decalogue, and supplies
^ absence of faith and Christian
▼irtoe.

All errors are half truths. Cer-
^17, bvc is the fulfilling of the law,
■^ the heart is all that Grod requires.
"^7 son, give me thy heart." But
*^*h(»rt* in the scriptural sense U
J***, the intellect, and the will ; and
^ love that fulfils the law is not a
Kntiinent, but a free act of the ration-
''ioqI, and, . therefore, a love which
^k within our power to give or with-
kU. It is A free, voluntary love,
jkUid by intelligence and wilL In
lh» sense, knre caDnot be oontrasted

with duty; for it is duty, or its fulfil-
ment, and indistinguishable from it ; the
heart cannot be contrasted with the
head, in the scriptural or Christian sense
of the word ; for in that sense it includes
the head, and stands for the whole ra-
tional soul — the mistress of her own
acts. To act from the promptings o(
one's own heart, in this sense, is all
right, for it is to act from a sense of duty,
from reason and will, or intelligence and
free volition. In souls well constitut-
ed and trained, or long exercised in
the practice of virtue, no long process
of reasoning or deliberation over takes
place, and the decision and execution
are simultaneous, and apparently in-*
stantaneous, but the act is none the
less an act of deliberate reason or free
wiU.

Plato speaks of a love which is not
an affection of the sensibility, and
which is one of the wings of the soul
on which she soars to the Empyrcum ;
but I can understand no love that con-
trasts with duty, except it be an affec-
tion of the sensitive nature, what the
Scriptures call ''the flesh," which is
averted by the fall from God, and, as
the Council of Trent defines, ** inclines
to sin" — ^*< the carnal mind," which,
St. Paul tells us, is at enmity with
Ciod, is not subject to the law of God,
nor indeed can be. Christianity ro-
cx>gnizes an antagonism between the
flesh and the spirit, between the law
in our members and the Law of the
mind, but none between the love she
approves and the duty she enjoins, or
between tlio heart which God de-
mands and the head or the undei^
standing. Love by the Christian
law is demanded as a duty, as that
which is due from us to God. We
are required to love God with our
whole heart, mind, soul, and strength,
and our neighbor as ourselves. This
is our duty, and therefore the love
must be an act of free will — a love
which we are free to yield or to with-
hold, for our duty can never exceed
our liberty. The Christian loves
duty, loves self-denial and sacrifice,
loves the law, and delights iu it after

486

Okari^ amd PkOamtkropj^

the inner man ; but in loving the law
he acts freely froai his own reason and
will, and he obeys it not for the sake
of the delight he takes in it, but be-
cause it is God's law; otiierwise he
would act to please himself, not to
please God, and his act would be
dimply an act of self-indulgence.

The age, in its efforts to construct a
morality which excludes duty and
obedience, tends to resolve the love
which Christianity demands into an af-
fection of the sensibility, and thence
very logically opposes love to duty,
.tnd holds it nobler to act from inclina-
tion than from duty, to follow the law
in our members than the law of the
mind. It may then substitute^ with
perfect consistency, the transcenden-
talist maxim, Obey thyself, for the
Christian maxim. Deny thyself!

But this is not all. The age, or
what is usually called the age, not
only resolves virtue, which old-fash-
ioned ethics held to be an act or
tree will done in obedience to tlie Di-
vine law, into a sentiment, or interior
affection, of tlie sensibility, but it goes
further and resolves Grod into man,
and maintains that the real sense of
the mystery of the Incarnation, of the
Word made flesh, is that man is the
only actual and living GU)d, and that
beyond humanity there is only infinite
iKwsibility, which humanity in its infi-
nite progress and evolution and ab-
sorption of individual life is continu-
ally actualizing, or filling up. So
virtually teaches Hegel, inconsider-
ately followed by Cousin, in teaching
that das retne &yn, or simply possible
being, arrives at self-consciousness first
in man. So teach the Saint Simo-
nians, Enfantin, Bazard, Camot, and
Pierre Leroux ; and so hold the school
or sect of the Positivists, followers of
Auguste Comte, who have actually
instituted un cuUe or service in honor
tif humanity. The Positivists are too
modest to claim to be themselves each
individually God, but they make no
bones of calling humanity, or the great
collective man, Grod, and offering him,
us Buchy a suitable worship. This is

taught and done in Ffbiu
lettered nation in Earop
principle that jadtifiea it p<
a little of the popular 1
Great Britain, Grermaay
United States.

If man or humanity :
course the highest virtue u
be philanthropy, the love
in general, and of no one
lar. Besdve now Grod int
philanthropy or the love o
an affection of Uie sensibil
sitive nature, and you hav<
shell the theology, religioi
rality to which the age te
the bulk of our popular
favors, which our sons and
inhale with the very atmos
breathe, and which explains
inacy and sentimentalism •
society. It is but a logica
that the age, since women
narily more sentimental
places woman at the head o
and holds woman — if young
amiable, sentimental, and r
the most perfect and adorab
ment of the divinity. Tl
form of philanthropy is tl
woman. I would sav,
only that might be tuken
that the highest virtue is tl
one's wife, or wifehood, wl
old-fashioned, unless by wii
the wife of one's neighbor,
dear young lady, be not to
the homage you receive;
withheld with the first appi
tlie first wrinkle or the first
It is better to be honored as
man than to be worshipped
dess or even as an angeL

The sentimental worshi
manity, or the reduction of
of charity to the sentiment
thropy, necessarily weaken
bases the character ; and wl
may say under various
praise of our age, and how(
our confidence that God in
dence will turn even its e^
cies to good, we cannot
moral weakness ; and it is <

CharUif and PhikaUkrop^.

437

sement of iDdiyidual character
kter, eren ia the Lower Empire,
men were more dishonest or
nt, more sordid or TenaL
;e8 haye been marked, perhaps,
refinement of manners, more
crimes, and great criminals,
are found less capable either
\ Tirtaes or great expiations.
3d not surprise U9, tor it is
natural effect of substituting
it for virtue, and sentimental
d culture, which we are con-
ioing.

, perhaps, will be disposed to
it we have substituted senti-
or moral culture, and it must
(ded that the didactic lessons
our schools throughout Chris-
for the most part, remain
ich as thej have been ever
le was a Christendom, and in
accord with pure Christian
There are few, if any, schools
j-en and youth, iu wliich the
tal and humanitarian moral-
ather immorality, is formally

But wo should remember
lidactic lessons of the school-
very little toward forming the
r of our youth, and tliat the
hat really forms it is given by
s circle, associations, the spirit
I of the community in which
brought up. There is a sub-
lence, wliat the Grermans call
'GeUtj which pervades the
community, and affects the
i morals, and character of all
w up in that community with-

formal instruction or con-
Fort of any one. So far as
essons and words go, the cul-
Mir children and youth is, for
\t part, Christian ; but these
ind words receive a practical
:ation by der Welt-GeUt, what
s spirit of the age, and should,
^ call ^the prince of this
which deprives them of their
D sense, takes from them all
:, or gives them an anti-Chris-
ining. It is one of the strik-
uliuitieB of the age that it

inculcates the baldest . infidelity, tiie
grossest immorality in the language
of Christian &ith and virtue. It is
this fact which deceives so many, and
that makes the assertion of sentiment-
al for moral culture appear to be 2^
total misstatement, or, at least, a
gross exaggeration of the fact.

It will, no doubt, also be said that
a decided reaction in our popular lit-
erature against sentimentalism has
already commenced. The realism of
Dickens and the Trollopes is opposed
to it, Bulwer Lytton, in his late
novels at least, is decidedly hostile
to it, and Thackeray unmercifully
ridicules it These and other popu-
lar writers have undoubtedly reacted
against one form of sentimentalism,
the dark and suicidal form placed in
vogue by Gk>ethe in his Sorrows of
Werter, and now nearly forgotten ;
but they have not ridiculed or reacted
against the form of sentimentalism
which substitutes the sentiment of
philanthropy for the virtue of charity.
They encourage humanitarianism, and
make the love of man for woman or
woman for man the great agent in de-
veloping, enlarging, and strengthening
the intellect, the spring of the purest
and sublimest morality. The hero of
popukr literature is now rarely an
avowed unbeliever or open scoffer,
and in all well-bred novels the hero-
ine says her prayers night and morn-
ing, and the author decidedly patron-
izes Christianity, and says many beau-
tiful and even true things in its favor ;
but, after all, his religion is based on
humanity, is only a charming senti-
mentalism, embraced for its loveliness,
not as duty or the law which it would
be sin to neglect ; or it is introduced
as a foreign and incongruous element,
never as the soul or informing spirit
of the noveL

The fact is undeniable, whether peo-
ple are generally conscious of it or not,
and we see its malign influence not
only on individual character, but on do-
mestic and social life. It has nearly
broken up and rendered impossible the
Christiaa feunily in the easy and edn-

488

(XorAfy md PkikmArepg.

cated classes. • Marriage is, it is said,
where and only where there is mutual
lo^e, and hence the marriage is in
the mutual love, is kwfiil between any
parties who mutually lore, unlawful
between any who do not. Love is an
interior affection of the sensibility, a
feeling, and like all the feelings inde-
pehdent of reason and wilL AH pop-
ular literature makes love fatal, some-
thing undergone, not ^ven. We love
where we must ; not where we would
nor where we should, but where we
are fated to love. It needs not here
to speak of infidelity to the marriage
vows, which this doctrine justifies to
any extent, for those vows are broken
when broken from unreasoning pas-
sion or lust, not from a theory which
justifies it. I speak rather of the
misery which it carries into married
life, the destruction of domestic peace
and happiness it causes. Trained in
the sentimentalism of the age, and to
regard love as a feeling dependent
on causes beyond our control, our
young people marry, expecting from
marriage what it has not, and can-
not give. They expect the feeling
which they cull love, and which gives
a roseate hue to everything they look
upon, will continue as fresh, as vivid,
and as charming after marriage as be-
fore it; but the honeymoon is hardly
over, and they begin to settle down in
the regular routine of life, before they
discover tlieirmistxike, the roseate hue
has gone, their feelings have undergone
a notable change, and they are disap-
pointed in each other, and feel that
the happiness they counted on is no
longer to be expected. The stronger
and more intense the mutual feeling
the greater the dlsappouitment, and
hence the common saying : Love
matches are seldom happy matches.
Each party is disappointed in the
other, frets against the chain that
binds them together, and wishes it
broken.

This is only what might have been
expected. Nothing is more variable
or transitory than our feelings, and
nothing thai depends on them can be

unchanging or lasting, y
feelings of the married ooap
towai^ each other, the marr
becomes a gallini^ chain, and
be a serious evU, and divor
sired and resorted to as a
It is usually no remedy at
remedy worse even than the
but it ia the only remedy p
where feeling is substituted f
al a£recti<Hi. Hence, in r
modem states, the legisl
direct conflict with the
law, which makes marriage
ment and indissoluble, pei
voix», and in some states fi:
as frivolous as inoompatibilit]
per. It is easy to censure I
lature, but it must folbw and
the morals, manners, sentimt
demands of the people, ar
these are repugnant to th
law, it cannot in its enactUM
form to that law ; and if di^
actments would be resisted as
cal and oppressive, or remaii
statute book a dead letter, a
much wise and just legisk
spired by the church in the
age?. The evil lies further
the humanitarianism of the ag
reverses the real order, puts
in the place of the spirit, phi
in the place of charity, and m
place of God, and which pror
excessive culture of the sentii
the expense of rational convii
afiection. There is no remed
returning to the order we hav(
ed, to the higher culture of rei
free will, not possible without
God and the Christian mystei
But passing over the e
sentimental morality on in
character, the private vxrti
domestic happiness, we fin
less hostile to social amel
and reforms in the state. Tli
philanthropic, and wages w
every form of vice, poverty, ai
ing, and is greatly shocked at
it finds past ages tolerated
ever making an efibrt to ]
hardly even to mitigals

CSiarity and PhilatUhropy.

489

is well as fiir as it goes ; but in an age
vben the sensitive nature is chieflj
eoitivotcd, when physical pain is
coanted the cliicf evil, and sensible
pleasures held to be the chief good,
pnctically, if not theoretically, many
(irnigs will be regarded as evils which,
in s more robust and manly age, were
nnheeded, or not counted as evils at
tlL Many things in our day need
dumging, simply because other things
hiring been changed, they have bo-
come anomalous and are out of place.
What in one state of society is simple
poTCrty, is really distress in another ;
ud poverty, which in itself is no evil,
becomes a great evil in a community
wiwre wealth is regarded as the su-
preme good, and the poor have wants,
habits, and tastes which only wealth
an satisfy. The poorer classes of to-
day in civilized nations would suffer
intenwly if thrown back into the con-
dition they were in under the feudal
i^^e, but it may be doubted if they
^ not really suffer as much now as
^y did then. Perhaps such wants as
4ey then had were more readily met
^ supplied than are those which
they now have. In point of fact.
Christian diarity did infinitely more
jtf the poor and to solace suffering
in all its forms, even in the feudal
H^ than philanthopy does now ; and
*e find the greatest amount of squalid
^wtehedness now precisely in those
Bttions in which philanthopy has been
Bwst soooessful in supplanting charity.
Phihmthopy effects nothing except in
>^ fsr as it copies or imitates Christian
^^ty, and its attempted imitations
*"* ftpely successful. It has for years
•^ very active and hard at work in
""Nation of charity ; but what has it
*c:ed? what suffering has it solaced ?
^)^ erime has it diminished ? what
J*^ has it corrected ? wliat social evil
°^ H removed? It has tried its hand
•8*w*rt licentiousness, and licentious-
^^ is more rife tmd shameless than
^^^* It has made repeated onslaughts
^ the minooB vice of intemperance,
^ jet dmnkenness increases instead
rf dnaiiuBliiogy and haa become the

disgrace of the country-. It has pro-
fessed great regard for the poor, but
does more to remove tliem out of
sight than to relieve them. It treats
poverty as a vice or a crime, looks on
it as a diHgraoc, a thing to be fled
from with all speed iK)Sdible, and
makes the poor feci that wealth is
virtue, honor, nobility, the greatest
good, and thiis destroys their self re-
spect, aggravates tlieir discontent, and
indirectly provokes the crimes against
property become so general and so ap-
palling. WJiat a moral New York
reads us in the fact that she makes
her commissioners of " Public Chan -
ties" also commissioners of '^ Public
Corrections !" Philanthropy rarely
fails to aggravate the evil she at-
tempts to cure, or to cure one evil by
introducing another and a greater evil.
Her remedies are usually worse than
the disease.

Owen, Fourier, Cabet, and other
philanthmpists have made serious ef-
forts to reorganize society so as to re-
move the inequalities or the evils of
the inequalities of wealth and social
position ; but have all failed, because
they needed, in order to succeed, tlie
habits, character, and virtues which,
on their own theories, can be obtained
only from success. As a rule, philan-
thropy must succeed i.i order to be
able to succeed.

Philanthropy — humanitarianism —
lias l>eeu shocked at slavery, and in our
country as well as in some others it
formed associations for its abolition.
In the West India Islands, belong-
ing to Great Britain, it succeeded
in abolishing it, to the ruin of the
planters and very little benefit to
tlie skive. In this country, if slavery
is abolished, it has not been done by
philanthropy, which served only to set
the North and the South by the ears,
but by the military authority as a war
measure, necessary, or judged to be
necessary, to save the Union and to
guard against future attempts to dis-
solve it. Philanthropy is hard at
work to make abolition a blessing to
the freedmen. It talksy sputterBi

440

Oanif and JPhthnUkrapf.

clmnon, legislates, bnt it can effect
nothing; and unless Christian charity
takes the matter in hand, it is very
evident that, however much emanci-
pation may benefit the white race, it
can prove of little benefit to the emanci-
pated, who will be emancipated in
name, bnt not in reality.

The great difficulty with philan-
thropy is, that she acts from feeling
and not reason, and uses reason only
as the slave or instrument of feeling.
Wherever she sees an evil she rushes
headlong to its removal, blind to the
injury she may do to rights, principles,
and institutions essential to liberty and
the very existence of society. Hence
she usually in going to her end
tramples down more good by the way
than she can obtain in gaining it. She
has no respect for vested rigdts, regards
no geographical lines, and laughs at
the constitutions of states, if they
stand in her way. Liberty with us
was more interested in maintaining
inviolate the constitution of the Union
and the local rights of the several
states, than it was even in abolishing
negro slavery, and hence many wise
and good men, who had no interest in
retaining slavery, and who detested it
as an outrage upon humanity, did not
and could not act or sympathise with
the abolitionists. Tliey yield in noth-
ing to them in the earnest desire to
abolish slavery, but they would abolish
it by legal and peace 'ul means — means
that would not weaken the hold of the
constitution and civil law on con-
science, and destroy the safeguards of
liberty. The abolitionists did not err
in being opposed to slavery, but in the
principles on which they sought its
abolition. Adam did not sin in aspir-
ing to be Grod ; for that, in a certain
sense, he was destined, through the
incarnation, one day to become. His
sin was in aspiring to be Grod without
the incarnation, in his own personal
right and might, and in violation of the
divine command, or by other means
than those prescribed by his Creator
and Lawgiver, tlie only possible means
of attaining the end sought.

Philanthropy commits the
ror whatever the good wor
tempts, and especially in al
tempts at political reforms.
herself ^cabined, cribbed,
by old political iostitutions,
out, Down with them. She
for the people a liberty whiel
they have not and cannot hi
the existing political order, m
ceeds at once to conspire agi
revolutionize the state, &
land in blood, and gets ana
Reign of Tenor, or militaiy <
for its pains. Never were tl
sincere or earnest philanthio]
the authors of the old Frenc
tion. The violent revolationsi
in modem Europe in the nai
manity, have done more hai
ciety by unsettling the bases •
and effiicing in men's mi
hearts the traditional respec
and order, than any good th
haxe done by sweeping awaj
cial and political abases the;
against The French are n
cally or individually freer to-
they were under Louis Quatc

Tliere are, no doubt, times
old political order, as in Ro
Marius and Sulhi, has becoK
and c tn no longer fulfil the
discharge the offices of a gov
in which a revolution, like th
ed under the lead of Julias an
tus Caasar, may be desirable
vantageous, for it establishes
cable and a real govemroen
place of a government that
longer discharge the functiom
emment, and is virtually no
mcnt at all. The empin
great advance on the republ
was incapable of being restor
revolutions properly so-caliec
taken for the subversioo of an
order and the introduction ol
held to be theoretically mon
luive never, so far as history
been productive of good. I
England is to^lay in advance
she was under the Stuarts,
dares say that she is in adi

charity and Philanikropy,

what she would have been had she
not expelled them, or that she bas be-
eome greater under the Whig nobility
than she might have been under the
Tory squirarchj ?

There haa been, I readily concede,
• real progress in modem society, at
kist dating from the fiflh century of*
oar era; but, as I read history, the pro-
greu has been interrupted or retarded
hj modem socialistic or political revo-
lotions, and has in no case been accol-
crtled by philanthropy as distinguish-
ed from Christian charity. More-
Ofer, in no state of Christendom
hi* diarity ever been wholly wanting.
]Httiuns have cast off the authority
of the church, and have greiitly
nieretl in consequence ; but in
Dooe has divine charity been totally
wtDtiog, and the influence of Christ-
iuiitj on civilisation, even in heretical
ud schismatic nations, is not to be
CQQOted as nothing. I am fur from
bdienDg that the nations that broke
iwsy irum the church arc not better
thtathey would have been if they had
W)t had the benefit of the habits form-
^ onder her teaching and discipline.
I knoir that extra ecclesiam nulla sit
^i but I know also that the church
i* « a city set on a hill, and that rays
^ the light within her may and do
f^teod beyond her walb, and relieve
^ lome degree the darkness of those
*koare outside of them. How much
^ chorch continues to influence na-
^ once within her communion, but
^'^ severed from it, nobody is compe-
Jjni to determine, nor can any one but
^ himself say how many, in all
^^ nations, though not ibmially
*>ited to the body of the church, are
yet not wholly severed from her soul.
^Hossian Church retains the ortho-
^ bith and the sacraments, and is
^"■ojtlly under no sentence of excom-
munication from the body of Christ,
^ Only those who are individually
^ voluntarily schismatic, are guihy
^^ ain of schism ; and in other com-
^Bniona, though undoubtedly heretical,
'■^niaj be iaige numbers of baptized
pcnona whodo xvally act on Christian

principles, and from pif
motives. All I mean to del
society or humanity ever gains any-
thing from violent or sentimental rev-
olutions.

The impotence of philanthropy with-
out charity, or pure humanism, is de-
monstrable a priori^ and should have
been foreseen. It is opposed to the
nature of things, and implies the ab-
surdity that nothing is something, and
that what is not can act. It is an at-
tem[)t to found religion, morals, socie-
ty, and the state without Go<l; when
without Grod there is and can be noth-
ing, and consequently nothing for them
to stand on. It assumes that man is
an independent being, and sufflces for
himself; which, whether we mean by
man the individual or humanity, 'Mhe
universal man," " the one man" of the
Transcendontallsts, or ** the grand col-
lective Being" of the Positivists, we all
feel and know to be not the fai't. ALin
in either sense is a creature*, and de-
pends absolutely on the creative act of
God for his existence ; and let God
suspend that act, and he sinks into the
notliing he was belbre he was created.
Therefore it is in Grod mediante his
creative act he lives and moves and
has his being. Hence it is, whether
we know it or not, that we assert the
existence of Grod as our creator in
every act we perform, every tiiought
we think, every resolution we take,
every sentiment we exjxjrience, and
every breath we draw, for no human
operation — ^[>hyaical, intellectual, or
moral — is |x>ssible without tlie divine
creative act and concurreiice.

Piiilanthroi)y, or the love of man,
separated from charity, or the love of
God and of man in God, is tlierefore
simply nothing, a mere negation, for it
8upix>ses man separated from Grod is
something, and se]>a rated from God he
is nothing. Hence St. Paul, in his
first epistle to the Corinthians, says :
" If I si)eak with the tongues of men
and of angels, and have not cliarity,
I am become as sounding brass or a
tinkling cymbal. And if I have proph-
ecy, and know all mysteries, and have

442

Ckariijf and PUlamJtkrcpif*

all knowledge, and have all faith, so I
could remoYe mountains, and haire not
charity, I am nothing. And if I should
distribute all my goods to feed the poor,
and should give my body to be burned,
and have not charity, it profiteth me
nothing/' This is so not by virtue of any
arbitrary decree or appointment of the
Almighty, even if such decree or ap-
pointment is possible, but in the very,
nature of things, and Grod himself can-
not make it otherwise. God is free to
create or not to create, and free to cre-
ate such existences as he pleases ; but
he cannot create an independent self-
sufficing being, for he cannot create
anything between which and himself
there should not be the relation of
creator and creature. The creature
depends wholly, in all respects what-
ever, on the creator, and without him
is and can be nothing. The creature
depends absolutely on the creator in
relation to all his acts, thoughts, and
affections, as well as for mere existence
itself. God could not, even if it were
possible that he would, dispense with
charity and count the love of man as
indopcndont of God, as something, be-
cause he is truth, and it is impossible
for him to lie, and lie he would were
he to count such supposed love some-
thing, for independent of him there is
no man to love or to be loved. Man
can love or be loved only where he ex-
ists ; and as he exists in God, so only
in God can we possibly love him, that
is, we can love our neighbor only in
loving God. The humanitarian love
or morality is, therefore, a pure nega-
tion, simply nothing.

Man is, indeed, a free moral agent,
and he would not be capable of virtue
or a moral action, if he wei-e not ; but
he can act, notwithstanding his moral
freedom, only according to the condi-
tions of his existence. He exists and
can exist only by virtue of a supernat-
ural principle, medium, and end. He
exists only by the direct, immediate
creative act of God, and God in him-
self and in his direct immediate acts,
always and everywhere, is supemat-
oral, above nature, because its creatOTy

and. as its creator, its fnopriet
maker has a sovereign rigt
thing made. The creature
more be its own end than its c
ciple or cause. Man cannot I
self as bis own end, because
his own, but is bis creator's, am
independent of Qod he is noth
God is both his principle and 4
the end is not possible witho
dium that places it in reLuion
principle, as theolo^^ians den
in their dissertations on the m^
the ever blessed Trinity, and
mon sense itself tenches. As t
ciple and end are supematura
medium must be supernatural
medium must be on the plan
principle and end between wl
the medium. The medium, in I
al or spiritual order, the gospc
es us, is the grace of our Lor
Christ, which infused by t^
Ghost into the soul elevates hi
plane of her supernatural dest
strengthens her to gain or 1
Hence, as says the apostle, E^
per ipsumj et in ipso sunt omt
things ai'e from him, and by b
to or in hun. These are the e
conditions of all life, alike in
ural or physical order, and
moral or spiritual. In all ordi
is the principle, medium, and
all existence, of all action.

In the moral or spiritual or
in the natural or physical ord
is a free agent, and acts fn
will, as Pope sings:

" Ood, binding nfttare fast lo fiUe,
Leaves free the buman vllL**

Grace assisting, man can con
the essential conditions of hi
ence^— conditions determined f
alterably fixed by his relation
as his creator — by the free ac
own will ; and by doing so I
morally, or has moral lile. He i
by virtue of his liberty or freet
fuse to conform, or in Uieologi
guage, to obey Grod, but be canr
fuse and live in the moral ordei
refusal is not a liviQg'act, it i

(^aritjf and Pkilanthropy.

443

the negation of moral life, and there-
fore is moral death, as the Scriptures
call it. He does not necessarily cease
to exist in the natural or physical or-
der, for in that order he cannot sever
liimaolf from God, even if he would ;
he may kill his body, but not the phys-
ical life of the soul, immortal, except
by the will of its creator. But he can
extingnish his moral life, or refuse to
hre a moral life, which is moral or
ipiritQal death ; and death is not a posi-
tive existence, but the ne^tion of ex-
istence, and therefore, nothing. Hence
life and death in the moral order are
let before us, and we are free to choose
which we will. To choose, grace as-
listing, life, and freely of our own will
to conform to the conditions of life, to
God as our principle, medium, and
cod, id precisely what is meant by
Christian charity, a virtue that fulfils
>U the conditions imposed by our rc-
buion to Grod as his creatures, the
whole law of our existence, and unites
oorwill with the will of God, and by
■0 doin^ makes us morally or spirit-
tiUy one with Grod. He who refuses
charity, or has it not, voluntarily re-
wonces God, separates himself mor-
>Uy, and so far as his own will goes
w«o physically, from God; and as
•wered from God he exists not at all ;
ttd therefore says the apostle, " With-
W eharity I am nothing." He only
fabres what is real, what is true in
^ nature of things, and which God
kimaelf cannot alter.

Phikuithropy is, therefore, necessari-
ly impotent, for it tends to death, not
°fe ; and as there is no action, physi-
*1 or moral, that does not tend to a real
^ it is not action, but a negation of
fttion, and is therefore in itself noth-
^ positive. All the sentiments for this
'^Mon are negative, simple wants of
fc soaL The soul may exert her
^^ijtn to satisfy them, or to fill up the
^ in her being, which thc^y all in-
cite, bat they are in themselves
Whmg. They indicate not what the
Ml has, bat what she wants or needs
toeomplete herself; and that can never
k obCained from the creature save in

God, for the creature out of God, sep-
arated or turned away from God, is
nothing ; it is something only in God.
Any morality, then, built on the senti-
ments is as unsubstantial as castles
in the air, and as unreal as '* the base-
less fabric of a vision." The senti-
ments being wants, negative, with noth-
ing positive in themselves, are neces-
sarily impotent. They are unsatisfied
wants, and incapable of attaining to
anything that can satisfy them. They
are a hungering and thirsting of the
soul for what it is not and has not.
Here is the explanation of the misery
and wretchedness of a sentimental agi^,
why it is so ill-at-ease, so restless, so
discontented in the midst of material
progress, and the accumulations of
sensible goods. It explains, too, why
the damned, or tiio.se who fail in their
destiny* must suffer for ever. Death
and hell are not positive existences or
I)03itivo creations of Grod, l)ut ai*e the
want of spiritual life, ai-e the unsatis-
fied wants, the endless cravings of the
soul for what can be had only in God,
and the lost have turned their backs
on Gi)d.

Charity is not negative, not a want,
but a power ; and it is easy, tlicreforo,
to understand that while philanthropy is
impotent it is effective Charity grasps,
as do all the rational affections, her ob-
ject, and is effective because she is
pt»sitive not negative, living not dead ;
and living, because shcj conforms to the
real conditions of life, and partiei|>ates,
through his creative act, in the life of
him who is life himself. She is less
pretentious and more modest in her
proceedings and promises than philan-
thropy, but makes up for it in the
richness and magnificence of the re-
sults she obtains. She works slowly
and with patience, for she works for
eternity, not time — without pomp or
parade, in obscurity and silence, for
she seeks tlie praise of God, not the
praise of men. To the onlooker
she seems not to move, any more
than the snn in the heavens ; bat af-
ter a while we find that she has mov-
ed, and has transformed the workL

444

C^ritg and JPhUoHikropg.

Broad in her love and expansiye as
the universe, and embracing all ages
and nations in her affections, she yet
wastes not her strength in vague gen-
eralities, nor in manifold projects of
reform or progress of the race in gen-
eralyfrom which no one in particular
has anything to expect; but takes
men in the concrete as she finds them,
does the work nearest at hand and
most pressing to be done, and pro*
ceeding quietly from the individual to
the family, from the family to society
and the state, she works out the re-
generation of all in working out the
regeneration of each. She works as
God works, without straining or effort,
for her power is great and never fails.
Power needs make no effort ; it speaks
and it is done, commands and it stands
fast. Let there be light, and there is
light. It is weakness that must strain
and tug, as we see in the feeble liter-
ature of the day, and philanthropy
seems to the observer to be always
more in earnest and far harder at
work than charity, and attracts far
more attention ; but while she fills the
world with her liollow sounds, chari-
ty, unheeded and unheard, fills it with
her deeds.

History is at hand to confirm the
conclusions of reason, though the full
history of charity has never been writ-
ten, and the greater part of her deeds
are known only to him whose eye
seeth all things, and will be revealed,
only at the last day. But something
has been recorded and is known. We
in our day think we are doing
much to relieve the poor and oppress-
ed, to console the suffering, and to bind
up thii broken-hearted; but the best
of us would be put to shame were we
to study what charity did during the
decline and tall of the Roman empire
and the barbarous ages that immedi-
ately followed. We have boasted, and
periiaps justly, of the 8er\-ices render-
ed to humanity during our late civil
war by our Christian Commissions and
Sanitary Commissions ; but what was
done by them during four years is
nothing in comparison with what was

done daily by Christian chari
lieve suffering and distress ft
er than were experieboed I
even who suffered most from
ages of our civil war, and tha
four years only, but for four c
I have here no room for d
even for the barest outline
charity did during the long i
the old world and the birtl
new ; but this much must be f
it was everywhere present a
getic, and seemed everywhei
new the miracle of the five lo
two fishes ; and when that c
had passed away, it was foan
new world on a far broader a
durable foundation had taken
Ctiarity had to deal with pov
want, with sickness and son
she relieved them; with capt
prisoners of war, and she r
them even with the plate i
altar ; with barbarians whose
vision of heaven was to sit in
of Valhalla, and quaff from
skulls the blood of their enemi
she tamed, humanized, and
them, and made them the :
nations of the world ; with si
Europe was covered over with
and she mitigated their lot, 1
their oppression, secured for t
moral rights of Christians, an
broke their chains and made t
frccdmen only, but freemen, (
freemen, and brothers of the
and proudest.

What if it took centuries to
shivery ? It did not take her c
to christen the slaves, Co brii
spiritual freedom, and provide
souls. She did not wait till
abolished the slavery of the 1
fore abolishing the &r more ]
slavery of the soul, teaching ti
the truth tliat liberates, incoi^
them into the church of God, a
ing them free and equal dtixei
commonweahh of Christ. 1?
spiritual freedom, of which ph
py kuows nothing, but which i
sis of all real freedom, and wit
provisions for the wanta of 1

Charity and PhiUmtkrapy.

445

» could wait in patience for the
eliyerance from bodily serv^i-
it daj might be long in coming,
3 it surely would ; and it did
i peaceably, without civil war,
ivulsion, industrial or cconom-
rbance. But, unhappily, with
, feeble portion of the slaves
ily Christianized, and by their
d spiritual training as free and
ambers of the church, which
) distinction between the bond
free, the white and the black,
take their position and play
t as free and equal members of
ety. Moreover, we have not
I to emancipate them peace-
have done it only by a terrible
, in the midst of the clash of
a means of saving the life of
n, or of perpetuating the union
tates; and the most difficult
remains to be solved, which
(Unitarians flatter themselves
>lved without trouble by polit-
)my, or the general law of de-

I supply ; but which they will

II need more Christian char-
tbe nation has hitherto pos-
> solve, without the gradual
I in this country of the negro
?he last thing to be relied on
ting any social question, ele-
y class to social or civil equal-
laking freedmen really free-
olitical economy, which treats
ifl a free moral agent, or as a
Qg, but simply as a producing,
Qg, and consuming machine,

the same category with the
ugh, patent reaper, spinning-
id the power-loom. If the
What shall be done with our
? be left to politics, political
or philanthropy, without the
on of Christian charity, eman-
fill only have changed the
their slavery, or given them
ires and burdens of freedom
) of its blessings.
te same in all human affairs.
tres of reform or progress, in-
\t social, domestic or political,
»eed or sacoeed without an

overbalance of evil, unless inspired
and directed by charity. They may
and do succeed without perfect char-
ity, but never without the principle of
charity. Philanthropy is man's meth-
od, and leads to nothing ; charity is
God*s method, an^ conducts to its end.
But we must not confound charity with
weakness or effeminacy of character,
for that would be to confound it with
sentimentalism. Charity is not credu-
lity or mental imbecility ; it is always
robust and manly, the rational soul
raised above itself by divine grace,
•and endowed in the spiritual order
with superhuman power.

Charity loves peace, but follows af-
ter the things which make for peace,
and shrinks not filom following after
them, when need is, even through war.
Modern peace-societies are founded
by philanthropy, not by charity, and
though they have been in existence for
half a century, and proudly boasted
that there would be no more war,
yet there have been more wars and
bloodshed during the last twenty years
than during any period of equal du-
ration since modem history began.
Charity founds no anti-hangman socie-
ties for the f^bolition of capital punish-
ment in all cases whatsoever, or prison-
ers' friends societies to convert our pris-
ons into palaces ; yet recoils from all
cruelty or undue severity, and seeks
to prevent punishment by preventing
crime. She never forgets justice, nor
sacrifices in her love for individuals
the protection of society or the safety
of the state. Her great care is to save
the soul of the criminal, and to this end
she visits the most loathsome cells,
takes her stand on the scaffold by the
side of the condemned, and will not
give him up till she has made his peace
with Gk>d. She fills the soul with love
for enemies and forgiveness of ii\juries,
but they are iny enemies she bids me
love, and my personal injaries she bids
me forgive. I cannot forgive injuries,
done to my neighbor, to society, or to
my country, for they are not mine ; and
she herself bids me, when summon-
ed by the proper anthority, to shoulder

446

OMflMaff mih the

my musket and march to the battle-
fi^d to defend public right and repreBS
public wrong. Charity is never weak,
sentimental, lackadaisical, or coward-
ly* It is the principle of all true great-

ness and manliness, and the
itable are the strongest, bi
most heroic, wherever daty
to act as well as to sofier.

firoBi the London Sodetj.

CHRISTMAS WITH THIS BARON.

▲ RATHBB BEMABKABLB FAIRT TALB.

Once upon a time— fairy tales al-
ways begin with once upon a time,
you know — once npon a time there
lived in a fine old castle on the Rhine, a
certain Baron von Schrochstofslesch-
shoffinger. You wonU find it an easy
name to pronounce ; in fact, the baron
never tried it himself but once, and
then he was laid up for two days' af-
terward; so in fiiture well merely
call him ^ the baron," for shortness,
particularly as he was rather a dumpy
man. After having heard his name,
you won't be surprised when I tell you
that he was an exceedingly bad charac-
ter. For a German baron, he was con-
sidered enormously rich ; a hundred and
fifly pounds a year wouldn't be thouglit
much over here ; but still it will buy
a good deal of sausage, which, with
wine grown on the estate, formed the
chief sustenance of the baron and
his family. Now, youll hardly be-
lieve that, notwithstanding he was the
possessor of his princely revenue, the
baron was not satisfied, but oppressed
and ground down his unibrtunaUe ten-
ants to the very last penny he could
possible squeeze out of them. In all
his exactions he was seconded and en-
couraged by his steward, Klootz, an
old rascal who took a malicious pleas-
ure iu his master's cruelty, and who
chuckled and rubbed his hands with
the greatest apparent enjoyment when
any of the poor landholders couldn't
pay their rent, or aflforded him any
opportunity for oppression. Not ooa-

tent with making the po
pay double value for the
rented, the banm was in tl
going round every now ai
their houses, and ordering a
took a fancy to, from a fiu
pretty daughter, to be sent
castle. The pretty dan
made parbr-maid, but as
nothing a year, and to find
wasn't what would be con
careful mothers an eligibk
The fat pig became sausage,
Things went on from bad to
at the time of our story, \h
alternate squcezings of the
his steward, the poor tenant
little left to squeeze out of tl
fat pigs and the pretty daoj
nearly all found their way
castle, and there was little e
The only help the poor f
was the baron's only daug
Bertha, who always had a
and frequently something
stantial, for them, when her
not in the way. Now, I'm i
describe Bertha, for the sin
that if I did, you would im
she was the fairy Fm going
about, and she isn't. B
don't mind giving yon a h
In the first place, she was e
tiny — the nicest girls, the n
little pets, always are tany
had long silken black hair, i
dimpled little face, full of
mischief. Now then, iU v

CArtJimaff with <A# Barwu.

447

li the details of the nicest and
i girl yon know, and youll have
i idea of her. On second
5, I don't helieve you will,
* portrait wouldn't be half good
; however, it'll be near enough
, Well, the baron's daughter,
11 your fancy painted her, and
Ddore, was naturally much dis-
at the goings on of her un-
parent, and tried her best to
mends for her father's harsh-
She generally managed that
many pounds of the sausage
ind their way back to the own-
he original pig ; and when the
led to squeeze the baud of the
larlor-maid, which he occasion-
afler dinner, Bertha had only
in a tone of mild remonstrance,
and pa dropped the hand like a
ato, and stared very hard the
ay, instantly. Bad as the dis-
h old baron was, he had a re-
iT the goodness and purity of
Id. Like the lion, tamed by
inn of Una's innocence, the
M rascal seemed to lose in her
e half his rudeness ; and though
awful language to her some-
I dare say even Una's lion
occasionally) he was more
e with her than with any oth-
i; being. Her presence oper-
a moral restraint upon him,
possibly was the reason that
T stayed down stairs after din-
t alwaya retired to a favorite
rhere he could get comfortably
'hichy I regret to say, he had
n the way of doing e^ery after-
tat I believe he would have felt
without

hoar of the baron's afternoon
iom was the time selected by
for her errands of charity.
s was fairly settled down to his
bottle, off went Bertha, with
id beside her carrying a basket
m a meal on some of the poor
. among whom she was always
I wit h blessings. At first these
ma had been undertaken solely
HuiCaUe moiiYeay and Berths

thought herself plentifully repaid in
the love and thanks of her grateful
pensioners, pf late, however, anoth-
er cause had led her to take even
stronger interest in her walks, and oc-
casionally to come in with brighter
eyes and a rosier cheek than the grati-
tude of the poor tenants had been wont
to produce. The fact is, some months
before the time of our storj'. Bertha
had noticed in her walks a young art-
ist, who seemed to be fated to be in-
variably sketching points of interest
in the road she hieid to take. There
was one particular tree, exactly in the
path which led from the castle gate,
which he had sketched from at least
four points of view, and Bertha began
to wonder what there could be so very
particular about it At last, just as
Carl von Sempach had begun to con-
sider where on earth he could sketch
the tree from next, and to ponder seri-
ously upon the feasibility of climbing
up into it, and taking it from that point
of view, a trifling accident occurred,
which gave him the opportunity of
making Bertha's acquaintance, which,
I don't mind stating confidentially, was
the very thing he had been waiting for.
It so chanced, that on one particular
afternoon the maid, either through
awkwardness, or possibly through
looking more at the handsome paint-
er than the ground she was walking
on, stumbled and fell. Of course the
basket fell too, and equally of course,
Carl, as a gentleman, couldn't do less
than offer his assistance in picking up
the damsel and the dinner.

The acquaintance thus commenced
was not suffered to drop; and hand-
some Carl and our good little Bertha
were fairly over head and ears in love,
and had begun to have serious thoughts
of a cottage in a wood, et caBtera, when
their felicity was disturbed by their
being accidentally met, in one of their
walks, by the baron. Of course the
baron, being himself so thorough an
aristocrat, had higher views for his
daughter than marrying her to a ^ beg-
garly artist," and accordingly he stamp-
ed and awore^ and threatened Gad

448

Oirisimas with the Banm.

with Bummaiy puoishment with all
sorts of weapons, from heavy boots to
blunderbusses, if ever ho ventured
near the premises again. This was
unpleasant ; but I fear it didn't quite
put a stop to the young people's inter-
views, though it made them less fre^
quent and more secret than before.

Now, I'm quite aware this wasn't at
all proper, and that no properly regu-
lated young lady would ever have had
meetings with a young man her papa
' didn't approve of. But then it's just
possible Bertha mightn't have been a
properly regulated young lady ; I only
know she was a dear little pet, worth
twenty model young ladies, and that
she loved Carl very dearly. And
then consider what a dreadful old ty-
rant of a papa she had I My dear girl,
it s not the slightest use your looking
so provokingly correct ; it's, my delib-
erate belief that if you had been in her
shoes (they'd have been at least three
sizes too small for you, but that
doesn't matter) you would have done
precisely the same.

Such was the state of things on

Chritstmas Eve in the year stay I

fairy tales never have a year to
them ; so on second thoughts I wouldn't
tell the date if I knew — but 1 don't.
Such was the state of things, however,
on the particular 24th of l)ecember to
which our story refers— only, if any-
thing, rather more so. The baron had
got up in the morning in an exceed-
ingly bad temper; and those about
him had felt its effects all through the
day. His two favorite wolf-hounds,
Lutzow and Teufel, had received so
many kicks from the baron's heavy
boots that they hardly knew at which
end their tails were ; and even Klootz
himself scarcely dared to approach his
master. In the middle of the day two
of the principal tenants came to say
tiiat they were unprepared with their
rent, and to beg for a little delay. Tiio
poor fellows represented that their
lamilies were starving, and entreated
for mercy ; but the baron was only
too glad that he had at last found so
fair an excuse for Tenting hia ill-hu-

mor. He loaded the iinbappy deCudt-
crs with every abuaive epithet he ooald
devise (and being caUed namci in
Grerman is no joke, I can tell jon) ;
and, lastly, he swore by everything he
could thmk of that if their rent wib
not paid on the morrow, themselves
and their families should be tuned
out of doors to sleep on the snow,
which was then many inches deep on
the ground. They still continui^ to
beg for mercy, till the baron became
so exasperated that he determined to
kick them out of the castle himself.
He pursued them for that purpose as
far as the outer door^ when fresh fuel
was added to his anger. Carl, wbo^
as I have hinted, still managed, oot-
withstanding the paternal proliibitioo,
to see fair Bertha occasionally, and
had come to wish her a merry Christ-
mas, chanced at this identical moment
to be saying good-by at the door,
above which, in accordance with im-
memorial usage, a huge bush of mk-
tletoe was suspended. What they
were doing under it at the moment oif
the baron's appearance, I never kmrv
exactly; but his wrath was trenm-
dous ! I regret to say that his lin-
guage was unparliamentary in the ex-
treme. He swore till he was msure
in the face ; and if he had not provi-
dentially been seised with a tit (if
coughing, and sat down in the ootl-
scuttle — mistaking it for a three-leggrf
stool— rit is impossible to say tu wlutf
lengths his feelings might have carried
him. Carl and Bertha picked him opi
rather black behind, but otherwise not
much the worse for hia accident. Id
fact, the divei-sion of his thoughts
seemed to have done him good; for*
having sworn a little more, and Qui
having lefl the castJe, he appeared
rather better. Afler having endured
so many and various emotions, it i*
hardly to be wondered at that tke
baron required some consolatkxi; io»
after having changed his tr— s-n, he
took himself off to his favorite turret,
to allay by copious potations the \m
tation of his mind. Bottle af^er boltk
was emptied, and pipe after pipe wai

Cknttmm wiik tke Barm.

449

•moked. The fine old Buiv
kS graduallj getting into the
ead ; and altogether be was
to feel more comfortable.
les of the winter afternoon
ned into the evening twilight,
omer still by the aromatic
it came, with dignified delib*
lom the baron's lips, and
id floated up to the carved
the tnrret, where they spread
!S into a dim canopy, which
oessive cloud brought lower
\ The fire, which had been
nouM tain-high earlier in the
f and had fiamed and roared
urt's content ever since, had
to that state — ^tho perfection
to a lazy man — when it re-
poking or attention of any
just burns itself hollow, and
blea in, and blazes jovially
i time, and then settles down
i\ glow, and gets hollow and
in again. The baron's fire
in this delightful *' da capo"
most fav6rablo of all to the
t of the ^ dolce far niente."
tie while it would glow and
liedy, making strange faces
md building fantastic castles
pths of its red recesses, and
castles would come down
ish, and the faces disappear,
i;ht fiame spring dp and lick
he sides of the old chimney ;
iarved heads of improbable
impossible women, hewn so
nd the panels of the old oak
opposite, in which the baron's
intages were deposited, were
f the flickering light, and
» nod and wmk at tlie fire in
ith the familiarity of old ac-
es.

inch fisincy as this was dis-
self in the baron^s brain ; and
axing at the old oak carving
ly, and emitting huge vol-
Imoke with refiective slow-
n a clatter among the bottles
ble caused him to turn his
ascertain the cause. The
la by no means a nervous

▼OIL. IT. Sft

man ; however, the sight that met Lis
eyes when he turned round did take
away his presence of mind a little;
and he was obliged to take four dis-
tinct pufis before he had suflftdently
regained his equilibriam to inquu^e,
" Who the — ^Pickwick — are yon ?^
("The baron said '< Dickens,'* but at
that is a naughty word we will substi-
tute " Pickwick," which is equaUy ex-
pressive, and not so wrong.) Let me
see ; where was I ? Oh ! yes. **Who
the Pickwick are you ?"

Now, before I allow the baron^s
visitor to answer the question, perhaps
I had better give a slight description
of his personal appearance. If this
wasn't a true story, I should have lik-
ed to have made him a model of man-
ly, beauty ; but a regard for veracity
compels me to confess that he was not
what would be generally considered
handsome; that is, not in figure, for
his face was by no means unpleasing.
His body was in size and shape not
very unlike a huge plum-pudding, and
was clothed in a bright-green tightiy
fitting doublet, with red holly berries
for buttons. Ills limbs were long and
slender in proportion to his staturet
which was not more than three feet or
so. His head was encircled by a
crown of holly and mistietoe. The
round red berries sparkled amid his
hair, which was silver-white, and
shone out in cheerful harmony with
his rosy jovial face. And that face !
it would have done one good^ to look
at it. In spite of the silver hair, and
an occasional wrinkle beneath the
merry laughing eyes, it seemed brim-
ming over with perpetual youth. The
mouth, well garnished with teeth, white
and sound, which seemed as if they
could do ample justice to holiday
cheer, was ever open with a beaming
genial smile, expanding now and then
into hearty jovial laughter. Fun and
good-fellowship were in every feature.
The owner of the face was, at the mo-
ment when the baron first perceived
him, comfortably seated upon the top
of the large tobacco-jar on the table,
noniog lui lefl 1^. The baran*f

460

Okritimat mA ike Bsnm.

somewhat abrupt inqairj did not ap-
pear to irritate him ; on the contrary,
he seemed rather amused than other-
wise.

** You don't ask prettily, old gentle-
man,*' he replied ; ^ but I don't mind
telling jon, for fdl that I'm King
Christmas."

''Eh?" said the baron.

« Ah !" said the goblin. Of coarse
you've guessed he was a goblin.

** And pray what's your business
here ?" said the baron.

" Don't be crusty with a fellow,"
replied the goblin. ^ I merely looked
in to wish you the compliments of the
season. Talking of crust, by the way,
what sort of a tap is it you're drink-
ing ?" So saying, he took up a flask
of the baron's very best and poured
out about half a glass. Having held
the glass first to one side and then the
other, winked at it twice, sniffed it,
and gone through the remainder tT
the pantomime in which connoisseurs
indulge, be drank it with great delib-
eration, and smacked his lips scientifi-
cally. ^ Hum ! Johannisberg ! and
not so vert/ bad — for you. But I tell
you what it is, baron, you'll have to
bring out better stuff than this when
/put my legs on your mahogany."

" Well, you are a cool fish," said
the baron. " However, you're rather
a joke, so now you're here we may as
well enjoy ourselves. Smoke ?"

"Not anything you're likelv to offer
meT'

** Confound your impudence !" roaiv
ed the baron, with a horribly compli-
cated oath. *< That tobacco's as good
AS any in all Rhincland."

** That's a nasty cough you've got,
baron. Don't excite yourself, my dear
boy ; I dare say you speak according
to your lights. I don't mean Yesu-
vians, you know, but your opportunities
for knowing anything about it. Try
a weed out of my case, and I expect .
you'll alter your opinion."

The baron took the proffered case,
and selected a cigar. Not a word
was spoken till it was half consumed,
when the baron took it for the first

time from his lips, and sa
witli the air of a man oomt
an important discovery in tl
confidence, ^ Das ist gut I"

''Thought yon'd say so,'
vMtor. '^And now, as yoi
cigar, I should like you to t
bleful of what / call wine
warn you, though, that it
potent, and may produce e
are not accust<»ned to."

" fiother that, if it's as g«
weed," said the baron ; **
taken my usnal quantity by
ties yet"

»* Well, don't say I didn't
that's alL I don't think yo
unpleasant, though it is nitl
when you're not accostom^
So saying, the goblin prodi
some mysterious pooket a 1
bellied bottle, crusted appan
the dust of ages. It did i
baron as peculiar, that the bo
once produced, appeared net
round as the goblin himsell
was not the sort of man t<
trifles, and he pushed foi
glass to be filled just as co
as if the potion had been si
Sanderaan, and paid duty in
commonplace way.

The glass was filled and
but the baron uttered not hit
Not in words, at least, but 1
forward his glass to be filled
a manner that sufiiciently be
approval.

** Aha, you smile !" said tl
And it was a positive fwA ; i
was smiling; a tiling he ha
known to do in the memoi
oldest inhabitant. "That's
to make your hair curl, isn't

" I believe you, my b-o-o-(
baron brought out this eamei
sion of implicit confidence y
Paul Bedford unction. " ]
one — here /"

Knowing the character of
one would have expected hi
his hand upon his stomach,
didn't ; he laid it upoo his kt

"The spell begins to o

451

id Uie goblin. ^ Have another

baron had another glass, and
* after that. The smile on his
ipanded into an expression of
eniality that the whole charac-
his oountenanoe was changed,
s own mother wouldn't have
him. I doubt myself — ^inas-
A she died when he was exacts
car and three months old —
r she would have recc^ized
der any circumstances ; but I
wish to express that he was
1 almost bey6nd recognitiou.
on my word," said the baron,
:th, ^I feel so light I almost
[ could dance a hornpipe. I
) once, I know. Shall I try T
ell, if you ask my advice," re-
lie goblin, '^I should say, de-
, don't ^ Barkis is willing,' I
ly, but trousers are weak, and
1^ split 'em.''

ing it all," said the baron, <* so
t ; I didn't think of that But
fbel as if I must do something

il that's the effect of your
of nature," said the goblin,
r mind, 1*11 give you plenty to
jendy."

ange of nature I what do you
fou old conundrum?" said the

lo're another," said the goblin,
sever mind. What I mean is
lis. What you are now feeling
itural consequence of my magic
rhich has changed you into a
That's what's the matter, sir."
ffdry ! me I" exclaimed the
** Get out; Tmtoofat."
t! oh! that's nothing. We
mt you in regular training,
Mill soon be slim enough to
bto a lady's stocking. Not
D'U be called npon to do any-
rf -the sort ; but Tm merely
you an idea of your future

. no," SMd the baron ; ^ me
that's too ridiculous* Why,
rone than being a fairy. Yoq

don't mean it, though, do you ? I do
feel rather peculiar."

^I do, indeed," said the visitor.
^ You don't dislike it, do you ?"

" Well, nO) I can't say I do, entirely.
It's queer, though, I feel so uncommon
friendly. I fed as if I should like to
shake hands, or pat somebody on the
back."

"^ Ah !" said the goUin, *" I know
how it is. Bum feeling, when you're
not accustomed to it. But come;
finish that glass, for we must be off.
We've got a precious deal to do be-
fore morning, I can tell you. Are
you ready ?"

"< All right," said the baron. ^'I'm
just in the humor to make a night ot
it."

^ Come along, then," said the goblin.

They proceeded for a short time
in silence along the corridors of the
old castle. They carried no candle,
but the baron noticed that every-
thing seemed perfectly light wher-
ever they stood, but relapsed into
darkness as soon as they bad passed
by. The goblin spoke first.

^ I say, baron, you've been an un-
common old brute in your time, now
haven't you ?"

** H'm," said the baron, refiectively,
♦* I don't know. Well, yes, I rather
think I have."

^ How jolly miserable you've been
making those two young people,
you old sinner! You know who I
mean."

"Eh, what? You know that, too?"
said the baron.

" Know it ; of course I do. Why,
bless your heart, I know everything,
my dear boy. But you have made
yourself an old pig in that quarter,
considerably. Ar'n't you blushing, you
hard-hearted old monster ?"

<' Don't know, I'm sure," said the
baron, scratching his nose, as if that
was where he expected to feel iu
I believe I have treated them badly,
though, now I come to think of it."

At ihiB moment they xeached the
door of Bertha's chamber. The door
ogenoi of Uielf at their appnitGh.

452

OhriUmm tfjtt A$ Banm.

^Come along" said the goblin,
'*jou won't wake her. Now, old
ilfaitj-beart, look there."

The sight that met the baron's
view was one that few fathers could
have beheld withoat afibctionate
«3motion. Under ordinary ciroam-
stances, however, the baron would
not have felt at all sentimental on
the subject, but to-nigbt something
made him view things in qnite a
different light to that he was accns-
tomed to. I shouldn't like to make
affidavit of the fact, bat it's tnj pos-
itive impression that be sighed.

Now, my dear reader — particu-
larly if a gentleman — don't imagine
rtn going to indulge your im-
pertinent curiosity with an elabo-
rate description of the sacred details
of a lady's sleeping apartment.
Yot^re not a fairy, you know, and I
don't see that it can possibly malter
to yon whether fair Bertha's dainty
little bottines were tidily placed on
the chair by her bedside, or tlirown
carelessly, as they had been taken
off, upon the hearth-rug, where Iter
thvorite spaniel reposed, warming
his nose in his sleep before the last
timoaldering embers of the decaying
fire ; or whether her crinoline— but
if she did wear a crinoline, what can
that possibly matter, sir, to you?
All I shall tell you is, that every-
thing looked snug and comfortable;
but somehow, any place got that
look when Bertha was in it And
now a word about the jewel in the
casket — pet Bertha herself. Really,
Fm at a loss to describe her. How
do you look when your'e asleep? —
Well, it wasn't like thai; not a bit!
Fancy a sweet gu*l's face, the cheek
faintly flushed with a soft warm tint,
like the blush in the heart of the
opening rose, and made brighter by
the contrast of the snowy pillow on
which it rested ; dark silken hair,
curling and clustering lovingly over
the tiniest of tiny ears, and the
softest, whitest neck that ever
mortal maiden was blessed with ;
long silken eyekshesi fringing lids

only less beantiliil than tl
earnest eyes they cover. F:
this, and fanc^, too^ if yi
the expression of perfect (
and parity that Kt op thu
features cif the slambermg
with a beaaty almost ange
yoa will see what the baron i
night. Not quite all, howc
the baron's vision paused no
bedside before him, bat had
on from the face of the i
maiden to another faee as
that of the yoang wife, ]
mother, who had, years befor
her angel beaaty to the angek.

The goblin spoke to the
thought. *" Wonderfully like
she not, baron ?" The baron
inclined his head.

^ You made her very bappi
you ?" The tone in which tl
lin spoke was harsh and n
^^ A faithful husband, tendi
true ! She must have been i
wife, eh, baron ?*

liie baron's head had son
his bosom. Old recollcctiou
thronging into his awakene
mory. Solemn vows to Un
cherish, somewhat strangely
Memories of bitter words, and
oaths, showered at a quiet i
plaining figure, without one i
reply. And last, the memor
fit of drunken passion, and fl
blow struck with a heavy
and then of three month«
away ; and kst, of her last
-—for her baby and bun.

**A good husband makes ;
father, baron. No wonder y
somewhat chary of rashly ent
to a suitor the happiness of a
flower like this. Poor child
hard, though, that she mast
no more of him she loves so
See I she is weeping even
dreams. But you have good r
no doubt Young Carl is
perhaps, or drinks, or gamble
What! none of these? Ferk
is wayward and anoeitain, m
fear that the honied words ol

CRrMCmof tfitt ik$ Batm.

4SS

It Uui) to bitter sayings in
f. They do, sometimes,
I ? Bj all meaos guard
such a fate as that. Poor
ower! Or who knows,
1 that, baron I Hard words
bones, they say, but angry
quick, and a blow is soon

blin had drawn nearer and

id laid his hand upon the

jrm, and the last words

rally hissed into his ear.

n's frame swayed to and

the violence of his emo-

last, with a cry of agony,

d his hands upon his

The veins were swollen

thick cord8, and his voice

it inarticulate in its unnat^

sness.

ner, release me! Let me

I go and do something to

past; or I shall go mad

hed out of the room and
lly down the corridor, the
lowing him. At last, as
) near the outer door of
which opened of itself as
ed it, the spirit spoke :
way, Uuxm, this way ; I
htre was work for us to do
mii^, you know."
r* exclaimed the baron, ab-
sing his fingers through his
air ; ^ oh I yes, work I the
d the rougher the better;

make me foi^u"

70 stepped out into the

1 and the baron shivered,
i it seemed, unconsciously,
reath of the frosty mid-

The snow lay deep on
id, and the baron's heavy
t into it with a crisp, crush-
at every tread. He was
d, but seemed unconscious
i, and tramped on, as if ut-
Ibrent to anything but his
^ts. At last, as a bhist of
wind, keener than ordinary,
r bim, he seemed for the first
itbechilL His teeth chat-

tered, and he muttered, ^ Gold, very
cold."

"^Ay, baron,'' said the goblin, ^it
is cold, even to us, who are healthy
and strong, and warmed with wine.
Colder stiU, though, to those who are
hungry and half-naked, and have to
sleep on the snow."

<* Sleep? snow?" said the baron.
^Who sleeps on the snow? why, I
wouldn't let my dogs be out on such
a night as this."

^Your dogs, no I" said the gdUin;
^I spoke of meaner animals— your
wretdied tenants. Did you not order
yesterday, that Wilbelm and Fried-
rich, if they did not pay their rent to-
morrow, should be turned out to sleep
on the snow ? a snug bed for the little
ones, and a nice white coverlet, eh?
Ha! ha I twenty florins or so is no
great matter, is it ? I'm afraid their
chance is small, nevertheless. Come
and see."

The baron hung his head. A few
minutes brought them to the first of
the poor dwellings, which they enter*
ed noiselessly. The fireless grate, the
carpetless floor, the broken window-
panes, all gave sufficient testimony to
the want and misery of the occupants.
In one comer lay sleeping a man, a
woman, and three children, and nest-
ling to each other for the warmth
which their ragged coverlet could not
afford. In the man, the baron reco^
nized his tenant, Wilhelm, one of
those who had been with him to beg
for indulgence on the previous day.
The keen features, and bones almost
starting through the pallid skin, show-
ed how heavily the hand of hunger
had been laid upon alL The <»ld
night wind moaned and whistled
through the many flaws in the ill-
glazed, illr-thatched tenement, and
rustled over the sleepers, who shivered
even in their sleep.

^ Ha, baron," said the goblin,
^ death is breathing in their fiMes
even now, yoa see; it is hardly worth
while to lay them to sleep in the snow*
is it? They would sleqi a lifttb
sounder, that'f alL"

454

€Sluri$ema9 wiA ih0 Banm.

The baron shuddered, and theq,
hastily pulling the warm ooab iituii
bis own shoalders, he spread it over
the sleepers.

"OhoT said the goblin, « bravely
done, baron! By all means keep
them warm to-night, they'll enjoy.the
snow more to-morrow, you know,**

Strange to say, the baron, instead
of feeling chilled when he had remov-
ed his coat, felt a strange glow of
warmth spread from the region of the
heart over his entire frame. The
goblin's continual allusions to his
former intention, which he had by
this tune totally relinquished, hurt
him, and he said, rather patheticaUy,
*< Don't talk of that again, good gob-
lin, rd rather sleep on the snow my-
self.

«Eh! whatr said the goblin,
** you don't mean to say you're sorry ?
Then what do yon say to making these
poor people comfortable ?"

"With all my heart," said the
baron, " if we had only anything to
do it with."

**You leave that to me," said the
goblin, ** your brother fairies are not
far off, you may be sure."

As he spoke he clapped his hands
thrice, and before the third clap had
died away the poor cottage was
swarming witb tiny figures, whom
the baron rightly conjectured to be
the fairies themselves.

Now, you may not be aware (the
baron wasn't until that night) that
there are among the fairies trades and
professions, just as with ordinary mor-
tals. However, there they were, each
T7ith the accompaniments of his or her
particular business, and to it they went
manfully. A fairy glazier put in new
panes to the shattered windows, fairy
carpenters replaced the doors upon
their hinges, and fairy painters, with
inconceivable celerity, made cupboards
and closets as fresh as paint could
make them ; one fairy housemaid laid
and lit a roaring fire, while another
dusted and rub^ chairs and tables
to a miraculous defpree of brightness ;
a fairy butler uncorked bottles of fiury

wine, and a faiiy cook laid <
rast of most tempting ap|
The baron hearing a tapja
him, cast his eyes upward ai
a fairy slater rapidly repairii
in the roof; and when he h
down again, they fell on a fai
mixing a cordial for the
Nay, there was even a fair
who, not having any presenl
ment, contented himself witl
his hands and looking pleasi
ably waiting till somebod
want to be christened or
Every trade, every professii
cupation, appeared, without c
to be represented ; nay, we
don, with one exception onlj
baron used to say, when i
relating his experiences to
friends, *' You may believe n
sir, there was every mortal
under the sun, but devil a
knayerJ*

The baron could not lonj
inactive. He was rapidly se
a violent desire to do somcthin
which manifested itself in ii
tempts to assist everybody
At last, after having takei
skin off his knuckles in attei
hammer in nails in aid of th<
ters, and then nearly tumblir
fairy housemaid, whose brooi
offering to carry, he gave it
bad job, and stood aside with 1
the goblin. He was just alx
quire how it was that the p<
pants of the house Vrcre not
ed by so much din, when a ft
Slick who had been exami
cottager^s old clock, with a i
thorough repair, touched son
within it, and it made the us
preparatory to striking. Wh
behold, at the very first stroke
goblin, fairies, and all disappe
utter darkness, and the bar
himself in his turret-cliamber.
his toe, which he had jntt
considerable force against th
As he was only in his nft^
concussion was unpleasant,
baroD robbed his toe for a go

Ckritlnutt with the Baron,

455

be had finished with his toe
bed his nose, and finally, with
ntenance of deep reflection,
ed the bump of something or
t the top of his head. The old
D the stairs was striking three,
I fire had gone out. The baron
d for a short time longer, and
decided that he had better go
which he did accordingly,
morning dawned upon the very
8 far as weather was concerned,
hristmas day. A bright win-
shone out just vividly enough
e everything look genial and
it, and yet not with sufficient
I to mar the pure unbroken
of the crisp white snow, which
I a never-ending white lawn up-
ground, and glittei*ed in myriad
flakes upon the leaves of the
evergreens. I'm afraid the
lad not had a very good night ;
rate, I know that he was wide-
at an hour long before his usual
r rising. He lay first on one
id then on the other, and then,
of variety, turned on his back,
is magenta nose pointing per-
ilarly toward the ceiling; but
all of no use. Do what he
he couldn't get to sleep, and at
i long after daybreak, he tum-
t of bed, and proceeded to dress,
ifier he was out of bed his fidg-
continued. It did not strike
Qtil after he had got one boot
t it would be a more natural
ling to put his stockings on first ;
rbich he caught himself in the
trying to put his trousers on
lis head (which, I may men-
r the information of lady read-
to, of course, cannot be expcct-
uow anything about such mat-
not the mode generally adopt-
la a word* the baron s mind
idently preoccupied ; his whole
; that of a man who felt a strong
B to do something or other, but-
loi quite make up his mind to
; kst, however, the good im-
xmqaered, and this wicked old
m the stillness of the cahn

bright Christmas morning, went down
upon his knees and prayed. Stiff were
his knees and slow his tongue, for nei-
ther had done such work for many a
long day past ; but I have read in the
Book of the joy of the angels over a
repenting sinneiv There needs not
much eloquence to pray the publi*
can's prayer, and who shall say but
there was gladness in heaven that
Christmas morning?

The baron's appearance down-stidrs
at such an early hour occasioned quite
a commotion. Nor were the dooie^
tics re-assured when the baron ordered
a bullock to be killed and jointed in-
stantly, and all the available provisions
in the larder, including sausage, to bb
packed up in baskets, with a good store
of his own peculiar wine. One ancient
retainer was heard to declare, with
much pathos, that he feared master
had gone "off bis head." However,
** off his head " or not, they knew the
baron must be ol)eyed, and in an ex-
ceedingly short space of tune he sal-
lied forth, accompanied by three ser-
vants carrying the baskets, and won-
dering what in the name of fortune
their master would do nexL He stop-
ped at the cottage of Wilhelm, which
he had visited with the goblin on the
previous night. The labors of the
fairies did not seem to liave produced
much lasting benefit, for the appear-
ance of everything around was as
wi*etched as could be. The poor fam-
ily thought that the baron had come
himself to turn them out of house and
home ; and the poor children huddled
up timidly to their mother for protec-
tion, while the father attempted some
words of entreaty for mercy. The
pale, pinched features of the group,
and their looks of dread and wretch-
edness, were too much for the baron*
" £h ! wliat ! what do you mean, con-
found you ? Turn you out ! Of course
not : I've brought you some breakfast.
Here! Fritz — Carl; where are the
knaves ? Now then, unpack, and don't
be a week about it Can't you see the
people are hungry, ye villains 1 Here,
lend me the corkscrew." This last

456

Okrittmat witk IA0 Bbkhul

being a tool the baron was tolerably
acenstomed to, he tiad better Buccess
than with those of the fairj carpen-
ters ; and it was not long before the
poor tenants were seated before a roar-
ing fire, and doing justice, with the ap-
petite of starvation, -to a sabstantial
breakfast The baron felt a queer
sensation in his throat at the sight of
the poor people's enjoyment, and had
passed the back of his hand twice
across his eyes when he thought no
one was looking ; but his emotion (air-
ly rose to boiling point when the poor
lather, Wilhelm,with tears in his eyes,
and about a quarter of a pound of beef
in his mouth, sprang up from the table
and fiung himself at the baron's knees,
invoking blessings on him for his good-
ness. ^ Get up, you audacious scoun-
drel r roared the baron. ** What the
deuce do you mean by such conduct,
eh ! confound you ?" At this moment
the door opened, and in walked Myn-
heer Kiootz, who had heard nothing
of the baron's change of intentions,
and who, seeing Wilhelm at the baron's
feet, and hearing the latter speaking,
as he thought, in an angry tone, at
once jumped to the conclusion that
Wilhelm was entreating for longer
indulgence. He rushed at the un-
fortunate man, and collared him.
** Not if we know it," exclaimed he ;
"you'll have the wolves for bedfel-
lows to-night, I reckon. Come along,
my fine fellow." As he spoke he turn-
ed his back toward the baron, with the
intention of dragging his victim to the
door, llie baron's little gray eyes twin-
kled, and his whole frame quivered
with suppressed emotion, which, after
the lapse of a moment, vented itself
in a kick, and surh a kick ! Not one
of your Varsoviana flourishes, but a
kick that employed every muscle from
hip to toe, and drove the worthy stew-
ard up against the door, like a ball
from a catapult. Misfortunes never
come singly, and so Mynheer Kloots
found with regard to the kick, for it
was followed, without loss of time, by
several dozen others, as like it as pos*
aUe, from the baron's heavy boots.

Wounded Hons proverbaJl
badly off, and Friti and C
had suffisred from many ai
petty tyranny on the part
steward, thought they could
better than follow their mas
ample, which they did to si
purpose, that when the un
Klootc did escape firom the c
last, I don't believe he coald 1
any o« $acrvm left.

After having executed this
of poetical justice, the baron
servants visited the other col
all of which they were recei
dread, and dismissed with I
Having completed bis tour of
the baron returned home to b
feeling more really contented
had done for many a long yet
found Bertha, who hud not ris
he started, in a considerable
anxiety as to what he could
have been dmng. In an^wei
inquiries he tohl her, with a n
he was far from feeling, to ^ i
own business." The gentle e;
with tears at the harshness of
ply ; perceiving which, the ba
beyond measure distressed, an
ed her under tlie chin in w
meant to be a very conciliatoi
ner. •* Eh ! what, my pretty
No, surely. Bertha must fof
old father. I didn't mean it, y(
my pet ; and yet, on second tl
yes I did, too." Bertha's t
overcast again. <* My little gii
she has no business anywhere,
that it ? Well, then, my pet,
you make it yonr business to
note to young Carl von Sempi
say I'm afraid I was rather
him yesterday, but if he'll look
and come and take a snug fan
ner and a slice of the puddi
us to-day—" "Why, pa, y«
mean— yes, I do really belw
do — ^" The baron's eyes wei
insr nineteen to the doaeti. *^ 1\
dear, dear, dear old pa !* An
imminent risk of upsetting th
fast table, Bertha rashed at th
and flinging two soft white an

Jle Ckruimai lirw.

457

dssed him—- oh ! how she did
I shouldnH have thought,
le could possibly have had
>r Carl ; but I dare say Ber-
:ed to his interests in that re-
ehow.

Jarl came to dinner, and the
t, not very many years after,
to the dignity of a grandpapa,
ry jolly old grandpapa he
[s that all you wanted to

Bnootz? Well, Klootz got
kicking, but be was dis-
m the baron's service ; and
lation of his accounts, it was
I that he had been in the
»bbing the baron of nearly a
lis yearly income, which he
fund; and with the money
IS compelled to disgorge, the
It new cottages for his ten-
new-stocked their farms,
e the poorer in the end, for
i worked with the energy of
and he was soon many times
I when the goblin visited him
iristmas-eve.

as the goblin ever ex-

Cerlainly not. How dare

the impertinence to sup-

a thing? An empty bot-

i with cobwebs, was found

loming in the turret cham-

the baron at first imadned

must be the bottle from which the gob-
lin produced his magic wine ; but as it
was found, on examination, to be la-
belled " Old Jamaica Rum,*' of course
that could not have had anything to do
with it. However it was, the baron
never thoroughly enjoyed any other
wine after it ; and as he did not thence-
forth get drunk, on an average, more
than two nights a week, or swear more
than eight oaths a day, I think King
Christmas may be considered to have
thoroughly reformed him. And he
always maintained, to the day of his
death, that he was changed into a fairy,
and became exceedingly angry if con-
tradicted.

Who doesn't believe in fairies after
this ? I only hope Ejng Christmas
may make a few more good fairies this
year, to brighten the homes of the poor
with the light of Christmas charity.
Truly we need not look far for alms-
men. Cold and hunger, disease and
death, are around us at all times ; but
at no time do they press more heavily
on the poor than at this jovial Christ-
mas season. Shall we shut out, in our
mirth and jollity, the cry of the hun-
gry poor ? or shall we not rather re-
member, in the midst of our happy
family circles, round our well-filled
tables, and before our blazing fires,
that our brothers are starving out in
the cold, and that the Christmas song
of the angels was, " Good- will to men ^

EPIGRAM.

■* Thy father and I hare sought thee •orrowlng.**

Dear heart ! and is it thus thou didst lament

His absence for a day 1 How different

Thy grief from mine I Absent from Him for yean,

I sorrowed not : and only found my tears

In finding Him. Then, to my bitter cost,

I knew the priceless treasure I liad lost I

458 n$ ChriiimMt Ifrm

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

Christmas comes bat once a year ;
Tis come at last, O glorious daj 1
Let every cross that mortals bear
Be for the moment flung awaj.

'^ Yes " says the cricket from his hole
Beside the flame-lit kitchen hearth,

'- It is a time for every soul
To give himself to joy and mirth,"

'* Christmas comes but once a year/*
Returns the timid pantry mouse.

^ The cat has told me not to fear ;
To-night 111 scamper through the hoose."

So, blow ye winds, and you. Jack Frost,
Come in the dark and do your worst ;
How wild soe'er the night may b*,
It shall not stir my Christmas Tree*

Then let us dance and laugh and sing,
And form in all one happy ring ;
The Yule log never burned so bright*
Hurrah ! hurrah I 'tis Christmas night.

It is a time to seek the poor,
And bid them welcome round our door ;
The alms we give, to (yhrist are given.
And hung on Christmas Trees in heaven.

The Christmas Tree is evergreen :
The hand of time may change the scene,
The child a gray-haired man may be,
But memory keeps the Christmas Tree.

W.S.,*-

n$ PkiJoMopkif of Cowomym.

4S8

HE PHILOSOPHY OF CONVERSION*

, to which the Catholic
ecur without emotions
gratitude, that Christ's
2ver gathering some of
the mad waves of her-
n around us into the
atemal bosom. It is a
every conscientious and
testant must view with
uietuJe and insecurity,
limpeachable piety and
hus ever leaving the
ness where they have
im, and seek and find
he Catholic ark of God.
: of these converts it.
mpossible to estimate,
jt little doubt, however,
?ed8 the reckonings of
)ns out of which they
,lly surpasses our own
calculations. Reliable
us that within the last
ess than forty-one cler-
American Episcopal
ave laid down the hon-
ments they there en-
espoused poverty and
'ith the Catholic faith.f
were mn of eminence
sphere of action, and
d held the highest and
lie position which his
ould bestow upon him.
have risen since their
posts of ecclesiastical
ver. Others have died

in iU ProffreM to Catholtciim,
Ives, LL.D. Boston. 1865.
ed a Protestant Lawyer to the
y Peter H. Burnett. New- York
djter Brothers, 1866.
eares from my Experience. By
sw-Vork. 1857.

Soa : being a Reply, etc. By
,B.D. New- York. 1865.
ew, July, 1860, p. 254. Thert
nvenioDi from the Bplaoopal
1.

and rest with God. All of them, with
but few exceptions, have remained
faithfiiL and have endorsed, in life and
in death, the wisdom and sincerity of
that step which brought them, af^er
many wanderings, into the apostolic
fold. »

How far the clerical ranks of other
sects of Protestants in the United
States have been invaded by God's
converting grace, no data that we can
command are able to determine. Our
personal recollections of their various
ministers, who at one time and an-
other have laid down their own will for
the will of Christ, lead us to the be-
lief that the number from each will
fall little short of that contributed by
the denomination to which we first re-
ferred. And as for laymen, they have
come to us from every known r iigious
name and creed, and full as oflen
from no name and creed at all. until
the throng has swelled fix>m hundreds
into tens of thousands, and gone be-
yond the possibility of our enumera-
tion or discovery.*

Moreover, this work is on the in-
crease. Year by year, almost, the
church is doubling on herself in these
triumphs of her toil Where individ-
uals once tremblingly isolated them-
selves from old associations, and cut
the vital cord of earthly friendships
and familiarities by submitting to her
guidance, now families and communi*
ties fly together to her arms for safe-
ty ; while those upon whose personal
decisions her labors and the grace of
God seemed to inake no impressioov
have ceased to persecute and almost
ceased to ban those who have followed

• Judging from tbe ttatiitiM of Uie pul fnr
years in tbe dioe«na of New York, the numlMr «C
oonverta In the Unittd 8tat«f must ixoMd 8(I|(NM.

-iD.aw.

460

I%9 JPkiio$opky of Ckmmim^

her, and recognize conversion from
Protestantism to Catholicity as a
change equally legitimate and ra-
tional with conversion from idolatry
to God. Nay, more : the very brain of
Protestant America itself is sloughing
off the narrow coib of illogical and
degrading error which three hundred
years of folly and of falsehood had
woven round it under the name of
Christian doctrine; and, in spite of
its self-conceived antagonism between
^^ Rome or Reatcn^* is drinking in long
draughts of Catholic theology, and
pouring out broadcast over this great
hemisphere the fundamental tenets of
the Roman faith as the indisputable
trutlis of human reason and divine
philosophy.

The tide of popular prejudice thos
turning, and the way thus opened to
the American intellect by the instru-
mentality of those who claim to be
her adversaries, it is no arrogation of
prophetic foresight to predict that the
progress of the church in this coun-
try must, in the future, be rapid be-
yond all precedent, and that the age
may not be far distant when this vast
"^Oontinent of Mary** shall, w^ith one
heart and under one name, obey the
Holy Spouse of Mary's Son.

When such realities are around us
and such possibilities before us, the
study of those mental and moral
changes in the individual by which
all has been done that iar done, and by
which also all that shall be done must
be accomplished, cannot be uninterest-
ing or unprofitable. No religious sub-
ject of so much practical importance
to non-Catholics is, probably, so little
understood among them ; and of none
have more false definitions been given
or more inaccurate theories been en-
tertained. Even Catholics themselves
have generally failed in their attempts
to realize tlie logical processes through
which the Protestant mind must, con*
Bciously or unconsciously, find its way
before it can n»ceivc Catholic truth
witli the dear, living faith of a Cath-
olic heart. It is to correct theae er-
rors and to scatter these difflcultiesy

as well as to justify seemin
sistencies, and above all, to i
possible, the wavering minds
who long for a light which' tfa
not how or where to find, tlu
vote these pages to a discu
those changes in the hum
which make up the actual oo
from. Protestantism to the
Church.

The materials for this d
are both abundant and sati
The first of the four works t
list is from the pen of Dr. I
was for more than twenty y
Protestant Episcopal bishop
Diocese of North-Carolina, ar
the acknowledged leaders of t
churcli party in the United Si
is a concise and luminous rehe
the reasons which led him to i
his exalted ecclesiastical statioi
of a mere layman in the <
church, anil presents a vivid pi
the *^ trials" and perplexitiei
extreme Tractarians must in*
undergo, when the iiicompatit
their position with their prin<
once fully apprehended. The
is a voluminous and formal tre
the rules of evidence as applit
revelation, and on those Aind
axioms which underlie all leg
human or divine. It is, oh
what the title-page professes, t
of a legal mind which views th
question of religion as open
able to abide the most thorouj
of reason and philosophy, au^
the great issues which it n
every case, to actual demonstr
deniaL The writer, now a (
was formerly a member of the
ed ** Disciples ,•*' a sect which
on the outskirts of Christian!
from which to Catholicity tl
must have been almost as k
devious as that from infidclit
The author of the third is Dr.
son, one of the moaipositive of
men ; whose range of docCrinml
ence has reached from Deisn
ultramontane Catholicism, ma
in every phase of his ]

The PkUowph^ oj (hiwertiim.

461

iviog power, dealing with real-
id strippiDg all imaginations
naioQs from the realities with
e dealt. The last is Dr. New-
ban whom no one knows bet-
e can describe so well, that
oiorosa which all converts
To these, if we would, the
f Manning, Wilberforce, and
night be added, each a re-
)f the changes which the inner
their writers anderwent in the
niggle after ultimate, unques-

truth; while, beyond even
le inexhaustible volume of ex-
I remains ; a volume in which
: things of these books find an
» interpreter, and on whose
leaves the hand of God has
the same history of which
nnan pages are the reflection
shade.

not an unreasonable hope,
: of such materials, wc may be
xmstruct an accurate definition
work of grace which, in tlic
s memory, has overshadowed
races all other gifu of God.
e proceeding, however, with
nioation of that change, by
lone the word ^eanverstan^
properly defined, it will be
y to CQiuider and refute those
» of it which arc false. (3on-
• a transformation in itself bo
■et involving so many and such
lateral changes in the inner
erior man — ^it is at once so
in its own nature, and yet
iy and, in point of time,
oately knit together with
eeedents and its consc-

that a clear view of it
XNn these is almost impossi-
I, by a process of negation, it
lied from its surroundings, and
at alone, defined as well by
8 fi0^ as by what it m. And
ibove all, important, when we
I present this subject to the
ndings of non-Catholics. The
Reen their religioua bodies are
f dimwn, and depend so much
I ioeial and pditical ouroum-

stances by which the members of those
bodies are controlled, that conversion
from one denomination to another is
not regarded as reaching to the very
marrow of the spiritual being, or com-
passing the salvation or destruction of
the souL Such changes are often
matters of taste or policy or friend*
ship ; sometimes of personal pride and
pique, and sometimes, but more rarely,
of actual principle ; though even this
principle never rests upon higlier
ground than individual points of faith
or systems of ecclesiastical organiza-
tion. It thus seems almost impossible
that, left to their own definitions of
that to wiiich we give tlie technical
name *^ conversion," persons outside
the church could ever arrive at an ap-
preciation of its extent and power.
And this is especially true in this
country, where the Catholic Church
externally occupies the position of a
sect among sects ; the most numerous,
perhaps, certainly the most prosper-
ous and aggressive of them all, but in
their view ranking as but one of many
forms of Christianity, and but one of
many branches of Christ's earthly
fold. No care that we can take can
be superfluous, no precision we can
use can be in vain when we attempt
to define the position of the church
on any question which interests our
age, or to delineate the relations which
she occupies to that great chuos of re-
ligions in the midst of which she
dwells. At the risk, therefore, of con-
suming time unnecessarily for some,
we feel it none the less our duty to
leave upon the minds of others no
doubt upon this subject which we can
remove, and no obscurity around it
which it is in our power to thrust
away.

(1.) First, then, the adoption of
the articles of the Catholic fiiith into
the individual's creed is not conversion*

The idea of convereion entertained
by nine-tenths of Protestants is pre-
cisely that which we have here denied*
It ha% hardly ever been our lot to meet
one, either in print or conversation,
whose argnmeDts and reaaoningi with

46S

like FkUoiophy of Chmferdom.

08 did not presuppose this definition
Co be true. It is verj natural, for the
reasons before mentioned, that this
should be so. From Unitarian to
Methodist, from Methodist to Anglican,
is but a journey from one set of doc-
trines to another. The same grand
underlying features of Christianity re-
main. The organic existence is an
accident arising from substantial doc-
tnnal affinity. And, judging by their
own experience and observations, Prot-
estants almost invariably conclude
that we became converts to Catholicity
as a logical result of our faith in
individual Catholic doctrines i and that
a so-called Pi-otestant, who holds any
. or all of these distinctive dogmas, is not
a Protestant in reality, and has no
right or title to the name. Of how
much petty fiersecution this mistake
has been the cause, and how many
parishes and pastors it has kept in per-
petual commotion during the past
thirty years, hundreds of the unfortu-
nate victims can remember.

Yet no definition of conversion could
be more totally erroneous. Belief in
Catholic doctrines is often chronologi-
cally precedent to a real conversion ;
but it is not always so. It certainly
operates as a powerful antagonist of
prejudice, and determines thd interest
and sympathies of the believer toward
the church. Candor, humility, and
earnestness being equal, such a be-
liever is far more likely to become a
Catholic than another who docs not
believe. But, for all that, such faith
docs not result in conversion as its
necessary, scarcely as its probable,
consequence. We have in our memo-
ry, just now, a clergyman who lias for
years openly professed his firm belief
in transubstantiation, purgatory, and
other equally extreme Catholic arti-
cles of faith. He goes into our
churches, and adores the holy eucha-
rist upon our altars. He venerates
the Mother of our Lord, and suppli-
cates God's mercy on the faithful dc^
In all these he is perfectly sincere, and
of the truth of what he believes, and
of the piety of what he doesi he ia ai

well convinced as any Pnte
ever be. Still he is not a Cat
we are almost satisfied be i
become one. Tears have f
and left him as we find him
other years will probably
change upon him in the natn
version. Nearly the same
said of Dr. Pnsey. His fl
in many, if not in most, par
Catholic His tastes and sj
arc Catholic Those who h
his nearest and dearest fri
Catholics. If similarity of
were all that constitutes o
the venerable father of Tree
would long ere this have i
rest we tremble now lest 1
never find. But his life re
and years and honors muK
his head ; yet who can say t
nearer than in the distant i
hopeful days, when his, i
^^/ot^'* struggled and pn
himforthelightofGod? Th
for this are perfectly apparc
and will be reached and deali
and-bye. At present it so
these statesments and illusti
have made it clear that belief
lie doctrine is not oonversii
Catholic Church. No, not
can tell over on his fingers, oi
the definitions of the council
traditions of the fathers,
nounce a credo over every on<
is he necessarily a Catholic, do
have passed through that vi
formation without which thi
has been and never can be a
version.

(2.) Second: the adoptio
extreme ritualism in wonh
conversion.

There is but one denomi
Protestants among whom t
definition is likely to obtaii
one is the Episcopal; and
numbers of its members (if
judge their opinions iix>m thei
it is actually believed that a
for rites and ceremonies is ev
Catholicity. Some yean
dwreh of the Uioify Innooepts

Tk$ Jmioiophy of Omwenion.

a Street mission chapel of New
did the church of St« James
B, Phikidelphia, were, bv this
' persons, uniformly regarded
aounced as Romanizing; as
rch of St. Albans in this city
le others arc to-day. Candles
rers upon the altar, crosses and
jB on the walls, the bowed head
ame of Jesus, the cassock-skirt-
, and other innumerable mi-
re to these people indubitable
B of Popery, and have often
as they do now, for a sufficient
f congregational disunion and
d decline. It would seem
in a discussion like the pres-
lotice an error so shallow and
mless as this, were it not for
[oitude of its results, and were
Iso, that so many of these very
B themselves imagine that, in
ing Catholic forms and cere-
they have secured in Angli-
all that the Catholic Church
can give.

ritualism is not Catholicism:
Catholicism so vitally connected
tualism that it may not exist
mtire fulness of its powers and
independent of external mag-
e and show. St. Antony in
irt, St Simeon Stylites on his
rere as true Catholics as St.
le in his basilica, or St. Leo on
no. Even the public worship
iharcb, when stripped to its es-
, is almost devoid of any out-
ign or sound that cau prop-
characterized as ceremonial.
e same priest who stands to-
bre the gorgeous altar of a
•lifan cathedral amid clouds of
will start to-morrow on a
iissionary journey through the
asSy with all the ^^ pomp and
lanee of JRomaniam** contained
he narrow limits of his carpet-
Utoalism is a means used by
■ch to accomplish certain ends ;
used, because the example of
nely instituted Jewish church,
own ages of experience, have
Bd her that by it those endj

can most surely be attained. But it
is no more an essential element of her
being than royal robes are of the be-
ing of a king ; and the weak carica^
turo of her stately ceremonial, in
which some Protestant experimental-
ists indulge, converts them into Catho-
lics as little as the tinsel crown and
sceptre of the stage gives royal birth
and power to the actor in a play.

(3.) Third: union with the visible
body of the Catholic Church is not
conversion.

This is the definition which most
of those who are bom Catholics would
give. Unconscious, as they happily
are, of the religious state of mind in
which pure Protestantism rears its
children, it is difficult for them to im-
agine that a man can be, or can be-
come, nominally Catholic for any other
reason than the simple one that binds
them to their faith ; and this habitude
of thought leads them inevitably to
confound the outward consequence of
an internal change with that internal
change itself.

They abo are in error. External
union with the church is the best pos-
sible primd facie evidence of conver-
sion, but it alone is not conversion.
That men have came into the body of
the Catholic Church from motives of
business, or of politics, or of family
sympathy there can be no doubt. But
in these cases there was no real con-
version. The deep, radical changes
which so thoroughly unmake and then
remake the spiritual man, never could
have taken place in such souls as these.
Their outward act was perfect, their
visible communion with us was all we
could demand; but in their inmost
heart they were as much Protestants
as ever ; and, when they went, acted
on the same principles as when they
came. Such examples are not numer-
ous, it is true ; but still they are suffi-
cient to demonstrate that ^joining the
church'^ is not conversion, and to deny
the minor premise of those who argue
the church's incapacity to satisfy oar
nature from the fact that these have
tried her and found her wantbg.

464

The PkUowpk^ fif OmomiM.

When oAo man can bo cited who, in
his soul of souls, has undergone the
work of grace which we now pass on
to consider, and who, in calmness and
in piety, and not in rashness or in mor-
tal iin^ has voluotariiy apostatized,
and who, in life and in death, has ad-
hered to his apostasy, and has died in
the confident and humble hope of hea*
ven ; then, and not till then, can such
an argument be worth our while to
meet.

The change we call ^ conver$ion^^
thus residing neither in the transfer of
ecclesiastical rekitions to the church,
nor in the growth of rituaUsm into the
external conduct, nor yet even in the
adoption of Catholic doctrine as the
individuaFs creed, must have its sphere
of action in regions deeper and more
fundamental than we have yet explor-
ed. The church of Grod looks with
the eyes of God upon the souk of men.
<* Give me thine hearty^ is her, is his
demand, coufident that if this be given
all else is also gained. The change
she seeks in those whom God would
make her children is a change, not of
opinion, not of tastes, not of behavior,
but of heart and will ; a change which
it^ches to the citadel of life, and
thoroughly and permanently converts
the man. With nothing less than this
can she be satisfied. On nothing less
than this can she securely build.

And this change is conversion.

Protestantism, so far ibrth as it is a
religious system, is based upon two
principles, from which have been de*
veloped all its infiuence and power,
and to which may be traced the nu-
merous and immeasurable evils where-
of for muny ages it has been a fruit-
ful soui-ce. The first of these is : That
the church, founded by our Lord, is
an invisible church, to which every
man who believes he is saved by
Christ is by tliat sole belief united,
whatever else his creed and religious
observance may be. The second is :
That every man, by his own reason
working on the text of Scripture, is
able to^ and must determine for him-

self what his relip:ioaa faith an
code shall be. The inevitaU
quence of the first principle
the doctrine and moral law of c
so long as they embrace the i
ship of Christ In any sense w
are matters in which his brothc
tian can liave no concern. Tl
table consequence of the seco
that the self-elimina!ed creed a
of observance of each Chrisuai
correct and reliable as those o(
even of all others, and will
only standard of his judgmeni
bar of God.

This first principle and its
deductions have resulted in
religious individualism. " 2!
munioH of saints^ in that »
which St. Paul describes it, as i
tian society, whose members n
depend upon each other, thi
same things, believe the same
speak the same things, preserv
unity of the Spirit as well as tl
of peace, has boon rendered
cally impossible ; while for it h
substituted an ideal '^ Christian
which consists either in the i
tion of all distinctive doctrines
human opinions, or in the toler
them all as different methods
pressing the same religious trutl
even this ^union^" which miglit
siblc if prl<lo and self-will wen
cated from the heart of man,
come so far from a reality, t
very theories on which it is
have sccted and bisected the <
divisions of Protestant Chric
until from five they have becoi
hundred, with every prospec
simikur multisection to the
tune.

Tills principle has done mc
has entered the bodies of th
themselves, and repelled mcmb
member, minister from flock,
destroyed, in the collective
sense of responsibility for the ft
conduct of its members; and,
members, all sense of resfioi
for their personal belief and
to the aect at laige. It has o^

2%e PkHoiopkif of Chnvernon.

465

tribunal established for the
ion of Christian discipline,
brogated ^ chttrch authority**
incompatible with purity of
) and religious freedom. It
)ed the conditions of admis-
lesiastical fellowship to "^ f^

of Christianity" and has
** terms of communion " and
nu of faith " as utterly sub-
r denominational integrity.*
ay it has made each man
b jurSj but de facto a spirit-
raty and has erected him into
ly independent religious body,
the sect of all real organic
degrading it from a church
1 and members to a^ mere
Ml of discordant particles,
iividual, being thus debarred
smal aid, is Uirown upon his
trees for religious guidance.

no living man upon the
n whom he can receive an
ive enunciation of eternal
Fhere is no set of men upon
things he can rely as more
r more ultimately certain
>wn. The common mouth of
om utters no voice that puts
i questions of his soul. All
him, upon one level plain of
Uibility; a fallibility which
on, however universal, can
;e infallible. All, whether
collectively interrogated, can
is appeal for light only by
lir own human judgments in
for his*

ioce arises the necessity for
nd principle on which, as
I the first, the foundations of
i Christianity were laid ; a
which recognises the intrin-
dualism that the first pro-
d perfects it by removing
every hope but one. That

is the Bible; a dead and/
I book ; a body whose spirit
If in the interminable laby-
■sgoages long since unspo-

r aDgUDdor for Joly, IBM, iwg«t 4n to
voIn it. 80

ken ; a star which gathers its reflected
rays through paraphrases and transla-
tions as chromatic as the intellects
that framed them or the pens that
wrote them down.

"^ I%e BiNsj andths BiMe onfyy^'h&a
been the banner-cry of Protestantism
from the dawn of its existence. The
first work of Luther, after his apos-
tasy, was the publication of such parts
of the New Testament as he consider-
ed best suited to his purposes ; and the
great aim of his successors, in all
countries and in all ages, has been to
flood the world with copies of the
Scriptures, in such guise and such pro-
portions as should soonest and most
surely undermine the principles of
church authority, and establish their
version of the Bible as the sole ac-
knowledged teacher of the truth of Qod.
From the beginning, also, as a part
of the same work, they have denied
that Grod has furnished to mankind
other interpreters of his revelation
than the unaided intellect of man, and
have declared the private judgment of
the individual to be his all-sufficient
and his only guide to the true meaning
of the written law. It will not, there-
fore, nay, it cannot be disputed, that
every man to whom the i\ame of
Protestant belongs, depends entirely
for his knowledge of ^e truth which
Grod commands him to believe, and of
the Jaws which Grod commands him to
obey, upon what he can learn, unled
by note or comment, from that collec-
tive translation of ancient books to
which he gives the name ^ 'O BijS-
kos:' or " The Bihler

Now, were it certam that the Bible
contained the entire canon <tf holy
scripture, with every book and para-
graph complete ; were it certain that
that Scripture was in every syllable
the utterance of Grod ; were it certain
that no error in translation had modu-
lated the clear voice which spoke
from heaven ; were it certain that no
pride of self-opinion, no prejudice of
early education, no ignorance of the
true meaning and construction of the
language, were able to distort the

466

79e JPkUoa^^ of Qmvenum.

spiritaal vision ; then might this prin«
ctple. to some extent, subserve the
purposes which Protestants allege it to
fulfil. But, while no evidence, by
them admissible, can determine beyond
cavil the completeness of their canon,
while divine inspiration remains a
fact beyond the power of human testi-
mony to establish ; while tliat confu-
sion of tongues which the centuries of
barbarian incursion wrought has ren-
dered more or less questionable all
translations from ancient Greek or
Hebrew to a modem dialect; while
human pride and prejudice have lost
none of their hold upon the heart of
man ; it is not in our nature to believe
that God has left us to such a guid-
ance as this principle asserts, and still
holds us responsible for the truth of
our opinions and the purity of our
'conduct at the peril of our eternal
damnation. And thus each of these
principles practically affirms and cor-
roborates the other, and both unite to
overthrow all definite revealed rel'gion,
and to prostrate at the feet of human
reason the dicta of the everlasting
G..d.

The state of heart and will which
these principles engender no length-
ened paragraphs are needed to de-
scribe. Previous to the age of dis-
cretion, the Protestant child, in spite
of these principles, is compelled to
rccognire, in n»ligion, an authority
external to himself. His parents, his
masters, his catechisms are, in his
sight, equally with the Bible, the
teachers of divine truth ; and, by
their aid and infiuencc, he arrives at
maturity with certain more or less
distinctly formed notions of Christian
doctrine, and with certain rules of life
grained into his character by the long
course of years. At this period he is
emancipated, in theory, from all ex-
ternal direction, and placed under the
sole guidance of his reanon and the
Bible. That sacred book ho opens.
It has no voice to him of its own. Its
pages offer to him the same words as
to all men before him ; but those words
contain no meaning independent of the

meaning that be gives them. It plaon
before him the formal statement of all
doctrine ; but teaches him, as absolute-
ly and infallibly true, no one specific
dogma which, whether ooosistent with
his present views or not, he mnst rp-
ceive. That which interprets, not that
which is interpreted, is ever the real
teacher ; and, in his case, his privates
judgment, trained and biassed by th^
prejudices and oondnsions of a lifes^
time, utters the only vmce and define^
the only doctrine which it is possible
for him to hear or to receive. The
Scripture does not teach him new anrf
otherwise undiscoverable trntb. //
rather confirms and expresses the
truth, which is already accepte<l and
declared. The orade, whose utte^
ance is the indisputable law, speab
from the depths of his interior beia;:.
The Bible is a mere ^^phraMe-hooi'
in which it finds the words and srm-
bols fitted to convey its thought. The
divine authority dwells in the man^wi
in the volume. He holds the sacred
book before the mirror of his reawD.
The image it presents, however imper-
fect or deformed, becomes to him the
truth of the Eternal Word. He casK
the pure wheat of God between th?
millstones of his human judgment
and his human loves. The grist tbef
grind is all the bread he has whereon
to feed his souL It is not difficult to
see that, by thb process of investijEa-
tion, every man must become the
worshipper of a God who is as ml;
his own handiwork as is the bmeo
idol of the Hindoo or the living Bad-
dha of Sha-Ssa.

Some of the better class of Pirt<-
estant minds have perceived this. ^
few of the most fearless have doch:^
it, and received, in consequence, the
name of "tw/Wefc" from their k*
logical and less consistent bretbivo.
** Belief;* says Mr. Rmerson, -«*•
sists in the acceptance of the ajfirwflr
tions of the soul ; unbelief in their if-
nidi'* The English language tm^
be exhausted and no better definitioa
given of Protestant belief than tfai^
When once the soul-^hat iS| the nfr

The PhUoMopky of Ocmvernon.

467

litioDS, and the will — when
otU affirms; when once
lations arc expressed in
}hr€ueology^ no Protestant
5 to pronounce them ulti-
ue without destroying the
ciple on which his own
been built. That many
so is only evidence that
•f Grod within them rebels
degradation of a Gospel
Sternal Son died in order
,te, and which his charch
earth and hell for fifty
in order to preserve.
3 which the heart and will
this religious work is sim-
chatce. The element of
to divine authority is only
ised as consists in the ac-
Scripture phrases as the
idividual conclusions. To
1 the formal, detailed idea
r existence to other than
, the affections, the will of
r. He chooses his dogma
ept according to the dic-
9 reason; receiving this,
it, on the sole ground of
atency with preconceived
anon, discarding old faiths
g new as time and circum-
rate upon his heart and
I it is nothing singular to
idering from Tractananism
litarianism — ^from Calvin-
ersallsm — ^and back again,
rchance at Methodism or
nalism on the way ; cling-
Bible all the while, trium-
iting to this paragraph as
t he is right at last, and as
y declaring the reverse
steps forward have landed
the other side. All this
-unless, indeed, his inner
the door of his professions
)f conscious falsehood, and
his soul is bent the arm of
• whose very existence his
otally denied.

detinition, no better exam-
/ than such a spectacle af-
ly age of Christianity pre-

sented. ^ Alpeaif^ meant "* choice.''
The grand distinction between the
heretic and the Christian resides in
this : that the one chooses doctrine to
suit himself, the other receives doc-
trine on the authority of God. That
Protestantism is choice — nay, that it
logically cancels clioioe to every indi-
vidual in it, cannot admit a question.
It is, therefore, heresy ; not, perhaps,
in the most odious sense of the word,
but still in that strict etymological sig-
nification which is the best clue to the
appropriate application of the name.
Like all other heretics, of whatever
sect, the Protestant relies upon* him-
self. He is his own Bible-maker, his
own doctrine-monger, his own law-
giver. Faith and theology and moral
law are only the result of his own
private judgment and divine com-
mand, moulded and digested into one
confused and contradicting mass of
good and evil*

It is to bis deliverance from this
spiritual state that the namecanversion
alone properly belongs.

Catholicity, on the other hand, i<
also based upon two principles, which
are the logical postulates of its exist-
ence, and whose necessary dtvelop-
ments will account for the immeasur«
able contrast which its severe and holy
tranquillity presents to the^ seething
and tumultuous incoherency around
it. The first of these is this : that the
truths with which alone revealed re-
ligion deals, are in their nature above
human reason, and though never con-
iradicting it, cannot by it be estimated,
comprehended, or discerned, but rest
upon the sole veracity of a revealing
God. The second is: that God has
chosen and appointed, as the medium
of this unerring revelation, a visible,
organized society, founded by Jesus
Christ, presided over by the H»»ly
Ghost, perpetuated through all ages
by his own impregnable decree ; and
that this society is the Catholic Church.
The inevitable consequence of the
first principle is : that revealed truth,
as such, is ultimately and infallibly
tme, and whether or not

4G8

The PhUaiO]phy of CkmvenUm.

with private judgment, prejudice, and
present conviction, must be received
and heartily believed. The inevitable
consequence of the second is : that
whatever the church teaches as re-
vealed truth, is so revealed, is there-
fore ultimately true, and must be rest-
f^d on implicitly as the infallible utter-
ance of Uod.

The result of this first principle has
been that the wonderful, and of^en
ludicrous, admixture of divine and
human truth, which may be found in
the religion of many Protestants,
IB utterly impossible to Catholics.
With all the questions of natural re-
ligion, as distinguished from revealed ;
with all the theorems of science and
of art; with the dark mysteries of
nature and the still darker mysteries
of man ; nay, even with those infer-
ences from divine truth which make
up systems of theology, reason is coin-
])etent to deal. It may pierce the glit-
tering nebulae of the Alilky Way ; it
may fathom the recesses of the ocean
.'uid cleave the crj'stal bowels of the
world ; it may climb the dizzy heights
of intellectual philosophy ; it may
conquer the vast problems of iwliii-
cal and social happiness. But here
its journey ends. When it stands
beside that boundless sea which rolls
between the finite and tlic infinite, it
finds no bark to bear it outward. Of
all that lies beyond, its eye, its ear, its
touch remains insensible. It can but
s':t down on the hither shore and wait
for light — the light of revelation.*

Ileason is limited fi*om above.
Revelation is limited from below.
In the mysteries of Goil, in the su-
pernatural, and in questions of faith^
her voice is law : and where it is law,
it is absolute, unconditional, indis-
putable. Free as the thought of God
is man's thought eveiy where but there.
There be must put his shoes from off
his feet and listen and obey. The
ground he treads is holy. The voice

• The able writer of DiU article certainly docs not
intend to deny the cinniwtencc uf riMaou to juilge of
the erldence of rcvelHlluii, or Ui judtiv that any pro-
position erldently contra<lictory to reason cannot be
4 rerealad traih.— £d. Catuouc Womlu.

he hears is that which sp<^e of old
oat of the buming bush. He cannot
gainsay God.

And thus it is that, practically.
Catholics are so free in all matten
except those pertaining to religion.
The line is drawn bo clearly and so
definitely between what t« and what
%8 not of faith, that not in one mind
in ten thousand is there ever the
slightest doubt as to wliat must be
received and what may be disputed.
The consolation given bj this simple
maxim: *^ If God ha» not revealed
it J I need not believe it; hut if God
has declcared it^ whMer or not I un-
derstand xty it is surdy true * — when
once incorporated into the guiding
principles of the heart, as in £e caw
of exery true Catholic it entirely is,
repays the soul for those dark hours
of Protestant doubting and perplexi-
ty, by contrast with which it can
alone be truly valued.

The result of the second of these
principles has been the perfect unilj
of Catholics in doctrine and in morals.
The voice of the church is the voice
of God. She is a living teacher.
She does not hide her truths in lan-
guages whose meaning sages only can
unfold. She speaks to every man la
his own vernacular^ and proposes U
him not only the formularies, but ik
exact ideas which make up the Chris-
tian faith. She is not confined to<^
eral statements, under whose vague
phraseology notions the most oppo^ta
may be concealed. She enters into
all the infinite details which exerj
proposition of divine truth embraoeii
and prints it in the same unvar^'ing
form upon the souls of men. With
the milh'ons who arc gone before
she has thus labored. With the mil*
lions who are yet alive she is thm
kboring to-day. And all, in tbeir
submission to her teaching, have (band
that jierfect concord of doctrine which
the gospel promised to the fiuthfiil
fiock of Christ, and testify to the ete^
nal wisdom of that God who placed his
church upou the earth to set at naiigfat
the foolishness of

1%$ J^Hoiopkjf of Conversion.

469

In a leligkm rach as this there can
be no room for choice. To the church
heresy is evermore a name of exe-
cmtioo and of horror. The hoart and
will of her disciples have but one ex-
ercise, and that is submission. Un-
conditionally, nnquestioningly, unpro-
testingly. they bow before her voice
and echo its decrees. Reason is qoi-
esoenL Where it cannot comprehend,
it passes by. Faith grasps the mys-
tery and lays it on the heart to be its
kw for ever. The sool has but one
mqnirj for every dogma, for every
precept : " Teacher of God., what hcut
tkon epokenT The teacher answers
and the sool obeys.

Soch is Catholicity. It is the antiih-
em of Protestantism. Whatever simi-
larity may exist in certain of their
doctrines, in their ultimate, essential
natures they are simple opposites.
The vdd between them is as vast as
that through which the First-born of the
morning fell; the dividing lines as sharp
and as precipitate as the high cliffs
which bound the tides of Acheron.
That *^tfia medici,'' along which the
easy traveller may walk secure, re-
joicing in the sunlight of both earth
and toiven, is a fond, foolish dream.
The ehnreh knows but two modes of
existence in reference to herself, sub-
mission and rebellion ; and even rea-
son teaches that her judgment, on this
point, is unimpeachable.

Throogh all that weary journey
which lies between these nether
worids of spiritual being the convert*s
feet must tread. When God's grace
finds him, he is a Protestant — ^perhaps
so pure and logical as to be standing
on the shores of rationalism and look-
inji^ at his own sonl as his source of
light — perhaps so inconsistent and so
self-deceived as to acknowledge an au-
thority which his fundamental Protest-
antism denies. But whether from the
external Saharas of Christian scep-
tieism, or whether from beneath the
tfaadow of the trath itself, the path he
fbllowt leads hun to one goal, the goal
of anooiiditional rahmission. Con ver-
maj eome lo him thiou{^ the

successive adoption of Catholic dog-
mas, through fondness for external
rites and forms, through personal
friendship and familiarity, through
any of those myriad ways by which
God leads the steps of his elect to-
ward beavco ^ but, when it comes, it
is the same change for each, for every
one — the abnegation of all choice and
self-affirmation, and the complete sub-
jection of the heart and will to the
obedience of faith. Then, and then
only, is the work ended and conversion
made complete. What the chureh
teaches is, from that hour, the faith
of that Christian heart What the
chureh commands is the law of that
Christian will. Doubt and hesitation
and sel^following are of the days gone
by, and his devotion to the chureh, as
God's teacher, is only rivalled by his
love for her as the home of God's elect.
The waters of the deluge roar and
dash around his mighty ark of safety,
and men and women, as they clamber
up the rugged mountains of their own
devices, laugh at him for his ignorance
and folly ; but he abides in peace, when
the dark waves have overtopped them
and engulfed them, and will live to
offer sacrifice on Ararat when the
days of divme searehing have passed
by.

The utter falsehood of those defini-
tions of conversion which we have de-
nied, becomes apparent from this de-
scription of what conversion is. There
is no inherent impossibility that a pure
Protestant, exercising to the fullest
extent the right of private judgment,
should arrive at doctrines identical
with those which the church teaches,
and should, as a result of tliis identity,
accept even her formularies as expres-
sive of his faith. The mystery of the
Trinity, than which no mystery is
greater, is thus received by the ma-
jority of Protestants; and there is
nothing in the doctrines of Transub-
stantiation. Purgatory, and the like,
which is unreachable by the same pro-
cess of scriptural investigation, un-
aided by the ooDsdous teachmgs of the

470

7^ Ikilotoph^ of OmmNiim.

church. There can be no doubt that
men have, by this method, approximat-
ed closely to Catholic doctrine, who jet
were whoUy actuated by Protestant
principles, and never dreamed of sub-
milting heart and will and reason to
the dictation of any authority what-
ever.

These men apparently hang over
the church, ready to drop like ripe
fruit into her open bosom. Nevertlie-
less, whatever of her symbolism they
may cherish, they cherish, not because
it is herSy but because it is their awn.
It is not truth which she has taught
them; they have discovered it them-
selves. It brings them no nearer to
her in heart. It does not subject their
mil to hers.* On the contrary; it often
begets in them an arrogance of her
divine security, as if their similarity
to her constituted them her equals in
the authority of God. Such men are
not with the church, whatever proxim-
ity they seem to have. Their boast
of Catholicity deceives many, and
most frequently themselves, but can
delude none who realize to what hu-
mility her true children must descend,
and liovv unquestioningly, when Grod
speaks, man must hear. The prayers
of the faithful are more needed for
such sou la than for any others, that
Grod would send them the disposition,
as well as the light of faith.

Of the various corollaries which
might be drawn from this demonstra-
tion of the real nature of conversion,
there is but one which time and space
allow us to notice. That one is this :
That the whole question between
Catholics and Protestants is one of
fact and not primarily of doctrine;
and can, like any other fact, be inves-
tigated and proved by human evidence.
On one side, it is asserted that faith
and morals are of comparative indiffer-
ence to salvation, and that no source
of divine light exists on earth higher
than that of scripture, interpreted
and judged by reason. On the other
side, it is claimed that whatever Grod
has revealed must be received witliout
queetioii or oootradiotiOD, and that the

organized society known as tl
olic Church is the moutlipw
medium of that revelation. I
ers the whole point in iaaue.
matter of fact, the first asse
correct, Protestants are secure
acceptance or denial of any c
articles of specific Christian d
If the second is true, the teach
the Catholic Church n&nst be i
implicitly, under peril of disob
to Grod. The question of the t
particubir dogmas, or of the obi
of certain coides of law, is i
foreign to this issue. If the cfa
right, transubstantiation, the in
late conception, the seven sacn
are matters not to be disctu
proven, but to be believed. If
wrong, they are simply of no
quence whatever. Any invest
which escapes this only real p
controversy will be in vain. I
must begin here and end here, <
result in making men either bac
olics or stronger Protestants
ever.

This ^ question of questions*
be answered by logical demons!
based on certain facts. As a his
work, the Bible is a sufficient vi
of the visible and audible facts
it records ; and the miracles of
therein related establish his pe
divine commission and the enti
liability of the declarations wb;
made. As historical works ab
writings of his immediate diiS
are a sufficient witness of their i
standing of his teachings, and <
actions which, in pursuance of
understanding, they performed
Christ stated that doctrines an<
cepts are not conditions of sal^
and placed in the hands of nu
book known as the Bible, wit
assurance that he could safely
wliatever interpretation therec
human judgment might give, aD<
so directed, his disciples did not
on specific creeds and laws, ta
receive and curcuhite the Bible
only organ of revealed troth,
that fact can be ascwtainad.

OfiKMOff JMi. 471

the other hand, Christ revealed a cer- vestigation of this question, in the
tain system of doctrine, and establish- light of history, the Catholic Church
ed certain laws of conduct ; if he invites all Protestants throiTghout the
fbanded a church and conferred on her world ; confident that, by the good
the authority to teach and the right to help of God's grace, this simple exam-
be obeyed; and if his followers re- ination, properly conducted, would
oogniied such an institution, and uni- lead the many hundred jarring sects
(brmly submitted to its authority as of Christendom into a Catholic unity
diTine, then this, as a fact, can, in its of spirit and into the bond of a true
tarn, be proved. gospel peace.
To a fiur, candid, and complete in-

From Once a Week. ^

CHRISTMAS BELL^/;-x '. ,,v>Jn?^'^''

In broken notes of sound,

The voice of distant bells
Falls fitfully around,

Borne o'er the rimy dells.
Anon in wailing tones

It breaks against the breeze,
Or in sad accents moans

Amidst the shivering trees*
In fragments o'er the glades

It falls, or floats aloft;
Then tmmulously &des

In echoes low and soft.
But other, nearer chimes,

In laughing octaves run,
In memory of old times.

And what the days have done.
Then changing, clang and wail

Up in their prison high.
And sob and groan and rail

At their captivity.

Kn^g : — flinging wild notes everywhere I
Clanging: — hanging discord in the air!
Chiming : — rhyming words from brazen throat !
Pealing : — stealing o'er the meadows and the moat !
"Dpng ^— sighing gently as a child I
Floating : — gloating o'er their tumult wild!
Swinging : — springing suddenly to life !
Saxging : — mging nature into strife I
T^iighing :— qoafflng the sweet and eager idr!
^ ' ; in aweifd sole of despair I

an CMiimm Bdt$. ,

Yes* hofw thej sigh.

And terai to die:
But like expiring ember.

At ^hteBt lyreath

The J leap from death.
And wrestle with December I

Oh, 'tis strange

How thej change,
In riijthmns and in measure,

Now tolling sad.

Now almost mad,
With throbbing pulse of pleasure.

But not long thus, — the ringers soon
Will catch the proper metre,

Staccato first ; then rippling tune
Gcows everj moment sweeter.

Away, away, the music flies.
O'er mead and wold and river,

Arpeggio movement shakes the skies.
And makes the belfry quiver.

Away, away, the cheerful soand
Flies widi its Christmas greeting.

And laughs along the icy ground.
Where snow-drops pale are peeping.

The crocus, hearing chimes of mirth.
Puts on her brightest yeUow,

What cares she for the frosty earth.
When peals ring out so mellow ?

The blackbird, in a love-lorn mood,
Is pecking at red berries.

But hark I those joy-bells make her food
As sweet as summer cherries.

In truth all nature hears the strains,
With heart of honest gladness ;

They ring surcease of human pains,
AjQd ring — a death to sadness.

They ring of friendship, and the grasp
Of hands in nuinly greeting ;

They ring the sof\er tender clasp
Of Love and Psyche meeting.

They ring oblivion of the years
Whose sunset was in sorrow ;

They drown in waves of sound, the
That ehmd the dawn UHOonom.

Tke Oodfreif Famihf ; or, Quutiom of Oe 2%.

478

They ring the affluent table spread.
They ring of that sweet maiden

Who comes, with modest silent tread,
With gifts for poor folk laden.

They ring in tones more sweet than all
Of hopes the Cross has given,

And then their glad notes rise and fall.
Like Christmas bells in Heaven.

>DFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.

CHAPTEB Xni.

DFBEY IN SBABCH OF FEB'
FECnON.

' said Hester one morning,
3ed from the lawn into the
I threw her arms round her
;k, ^ papa, I am thoroughly
jver to be married."

enough, my darling, to
it ; but why this sudden re-

e married women are so
Adelaide and Annie were
8 crickets when they were
now how serious and un-
appear."

ness is not unhappiness.
one sedate."

it I am sure they are mis-
[ tell you I will not marry ;
promise my hand to any
I she put a very lovely one
ber's hand as she spoke.
Dt, my dear Hetty ; but you

alter your mind."
not, and I will tell you why.
nsidered this matter very

I have discovered that a
rmiMi is but a slave to a
must have no will of her
ne of her own, and though

she has all the trouble and anxiety
with the children, they are his — not
hers — as soon as they begin to rea-
son. I love freedom, papa ; I will be
no mere tool to any man. No art, no
science, no refinement, no practical im-
provement can flourish in slavery;
and the reason women have shown
less aptitude for intellectual cultivation
than men is, that they are mere slaves
—domestic drudges, for the most part
— ^with no higher interest than to pro-
cure food and clothing.''

^ Where did my Hester pick up
Mary Wolstonecroft's writings ?*

** Mary Wolstonecroft — ^who is she,
papa ?"

*'A lady who advocates woman's
rights, my love. I thought you had
been reading her book."

^ There is no need if all she says is '
that which I feel, namely, that all wo-
men are slaves. I learned this from
simple observation. I wonder all wo-
men do not feel it sa"

^ Women are supposed to live in
their affections ; and those whom we
love we serve willingly.**

^ Yes, but you km)w that soon be-
comes a mere supposidoD, even if it be
not so at first. How snappish wives
usually aite I I nodee it in tha ooi*

474

Tke Godfrey Famify; or, Quetiunu ^ A$ Dttjf.

tagers, in the tradesfolks ; everywhere,
where manners are not taught to en-
able one to sham before companj.
And the husbands are surly, unman-
ageable bears; there must be some-
thing wrong in marriage to produce
these effects so frequently."

" And what remedy do you pro-
pose?" asked Mr. Godfrey, greatly
^amazed.

*^ Nay, that I have not considered.
I only know that something is wrong
now, and that I will not marry 'till it
* is set right."

"Wait 'till you fall in love, my
dear."

"Fall in love, indeed! What a
ridiculous thing to do! No, papa, I
intend no fall ; that is just why I will
not marry. I might admire and re-
spect a man as my equal; I might
even venerate him as my superior, if
he were my superior in mind; but
bind myself to him as a slave I would
not. •No Grecian hero in all anti-
quity could inspire me with love
enoufrh to commit a moral suicide."

" i'he Grecian women claimed no
equal rights," said Mr. Godfrey.

"No; I marked that well, papa.
History is a treatise on men^-on their
deeds, tlieir daring, their wisdom, their
improvement or retrogression. Now
and then, as if by accident, a woman^s
deeds were recorded, but very rarely.
Why this has been, I cannot divine.
Woman ought, could, should, and must
rebel. This is the age of freedom.
Does freedom concern only lialf of the
human race ?"

"No; it concerned the horde of
women who forced their way into the
royal apartments at Versailles. My
Hester should have headed the pro-
cession V*

" Now, papa, that is not fair. You
know well 1 do not wish to counte-
nance rude and vulgar proceedings.
Only I do not see why woman should
not cultivate her intellectual and mor-
al ]H>wers, and march onward in the
career of perfectibility as well as man."

" What is that long word you used,
Hester?"

"Now,* papa, how p
are! Have you not yi
me to cultivate every £
fection, as a doty 1 Ha'
ten said that the worl<
learn the results of a
many • sided developn
hitherto too strong a I
given, and that a one-t
has made a one-sided cfa

" I have said this. He
IS this to the purpose 7"

" Why, perfectibility i
tendency toward perfec
by this equipoised, by tii
development; andwoma
chief operator in effect!
poised development, bei
is the exclusive educator
of either sex ; and it is
when very young, that t
laid of ideas which peris!
iologists say that thoagl
modified afterward, the f
most part, given ere the
has been attained."

" It may be so, but w
asked the father.

" Why, I think, then,
especial vocation is to
this perfectibility : that i
cure a due developmc
teach the race to aspii
to me that, generally
aims of the world are v<
and sensual. If we co
the race with the desin
the utmost perfection ol
nature is capable, methio
work would be begun, a
might be brought almost
the misery tliat now exii
position would be so diffc

" It is a glorious proji
father turning to the a
"but a difficult one ;
large, and every one thi
ideas the right ones."

" I know it ; but I b
that thought must not
spiration. Individuals I
the face of nations befor
they suffered their enthi
checked by dwelliog on !

ne Oodjre^ Famify ; or^ Questions of Oe Day.

475

penoQ can do, nothing would ever
IttTe been done. An individual who
feels an intense interest in any subject,
lod a full conviction that such a sub-
ject is likelj to benefit his co-patriols,
u bound to carry forward his views to
the ntmost of his power."

**You may be right — ^nay, the prin-
ciple is ri^ht ; but what can my little
Hester do P'

^'She can 9tudy and think and
experimentalize and observe and
ksve the lienefit of her father's ad-
vice through all, if only he will give
it her, if only he will put it out of his
beid that every girl is bom to be mar-
ried, and that a girl cannot think and
•et for herself, and cherish ideas of
plulaothropy and work for the public
UPod."

^Lfcnrgns would not sanction this,
mjrUule Spartan girL"

** Perhaps not, papa; but times
lave altered. L^slators used to
seek for a numerous population. Now,
Br. Malthus says the world is over-
peopled."

^Wfay, Hester,! did not think these
were subjects that you cared for at

••But I do care for them, papa —
■ore, much ' more than you think ;
nd what I ask of you is to forget
^ I am a girl, and let me think and
■Wy everything — apolitical economy,
Meial economy, natural philosophy,
c^lucB, and aesthetics. I want to know
l|o*each of these bears upon the condi-
teof the race, to see what man might
^ I want to know why man is creat-
•^Ho what he tends."

*^Man 18 created to enjoy life, my

'^Tben why are so many misera-
^t Why have we disease, plague,
&«^ war, and bloodshed ?"

''These are partly the result of
■*n*B ignorance.''

/And yet man has existed nearly
^ tboound years, and every kind
• J|f experience and teachmg has been
!^; and philosophers, sages, religion-
'mawpvers have been trying to in-
tact hmi, and he is ignorant BtilL''

" You forget, Hester, that every in-
dividual that is born into the world is
bom ignorant and helpless; and yet
every individual must realize instruc-
tion ere ignorance can be banished.
Where you have an educated peo-
ple to work upon, you may propound
improvements and be understood, and
then you will find instruments who will
co-operate with you ; but now look at
the population. Occupied in daily toil,
as the price of life, how can they com-
prehend high theories, or study experi-
mental philosophy. If they go into '
it at all, it must bo to take upon trust
a few ideas, and they arc as likely to
take the wrong ideas as the right ones,
by that means."

" And is there no remedy for this ?
Is all this toil necessary 1 It seems to
me as if a groat deal of unnecessary
work is always being performed. Spar-
tan frugality would disapprove of much
of modern luxury ; and is not half the
toil for luxury merely ?"

** Some of it is ; but Spartan pride
refused all toil, even for necessaries.
The laborers of the present day do the
work of the helots in Sparta. To
work was beneath the dignity of a
Spartan."

^ And we have no helots in Eng-
land now,** said Hester.

** Would you wish to have ?" asked
Mr. Godfrey.

** No ! Why should one part of man-
kind be sacrificed to the happiness of
the other? I would have no men
slaves, no women slaves. Let all be
free and equal. If there is work to
be done, let all do a poftion, and let
all have a portion of rest, or rather of
leisure, for the improvement of the
mental faculties."

*' No man will work, unless com-
pelled, at hard, daily labor. Those
who have pniperty are not compelled.
How will you compel them? For
instance, my neighbor, the blacksmith,
has a wife and six children to support.
He works from twelve to fourteen
hours daily. His wife keeps no ser-
vant ; she scrubs, washes, cooks, and
attends to all herself. Now, you

476

The GMyref Faimfy; or^ Quettiam §fik$ Jkgf.

and I, being people of lebore, should
do half their work for them. Suppose
you go and help the wife, and I go
and help the blacksmith half of eveiy
day; they might then stady perfect
tibility the other half."

Hester laughed. ^We might do
worse than that," she said ; ^ but that
would only be helping two individuals,
whereas I wish to place society on a
right principle. I no longer wonder
at the French revolution. Had I to
toil hard and to live hard, seeing all
the while some few privileged beings
do nothing at all but revel in luxury,
I should be a revolutionist too ; only
I should not know how to set the mat-
ter right. One thing is clear from all
history, luxury is an injury to the in-
dividual who uses it, and all states
have been weakened when luxury has
become common ; therefore, father, I
will make myself hardy, that I may
not be corrupted in my own proper
person."

And true to her resolution, Hester,
regardless of public opinion, became
simple in her habits. A hard bed,
plain diet, an uncarpeted room, with
singular plainness of dress, distinguish-
ed this young aspirant afler perfec-
tibility. Her mother would willingly
have seen her dress in a manner be-
coming her station ; but Hester ^ did
not choose to make herself a peg on
which to hang dressmakers' fancies.
Clothes were for two purposes," she
said, ^ for warmth and decency ; when
these two objects were attained it was
enough.*' Her mother's remonstrances
availed nothing, and her father laugh-
ed: the eccentricities of the spoiled
child amused him, and daily be be-
came more accustomed to gratify every
wish that she expressed.

Hester was in earnest. She found-
ed schools, she formed societies in
which adult laborers might receive in-
struction in the evenings; she estab-
lished libraries and promoted the scien-
tific associations afterward more fully
developed under the name of "Me-
chanics' Institutes." Hester visited
the lowly that she might form an es-

timate of their real podtii
their improveable points, an
these latter to good poipow
intricacies thickened upoo
heard complaints that the
improvident and wasteiiiL

" How can that be," said 8
a man pays rent, and pro
clothing, and food for himse
and four children, out of
twelve shillings a week ? ]
does our mere board oos
times that sum at leaist, and
called economical. Oh ! il
miserable life they load <
poor pittance as that! Ps
must have food; he gets i
ground : he must have shell
trees chopped down will
that : he must have clothes ;
he can grow : why not pUu
land where they can get thi
than let them half starve at

"It is being done in oni
but an emigrant's life, m
would scarcely assist your
theories. Every moment is
in drudgery of some kind,
proportion of the emigrants d
ship."

Hester turned round In
" Ever, ever an obstacle I
not give up. There must be
improving mankind, and 1 1
yet.**

These discussions were l
renewed, but with little bettt
On one occasion Eugene wi
and he said with a smile, " S
are seeking the philos<^>lu
sister ? I doubt you will no
exterior relationships or u
circumstance ; evil is in th<
evil to a larger amount than
any conception of, and no es
rangement will suffice to
Set man free, as you term it
restraint of ovcrLeibor, withe
ening the interior impulse to
higher life, and the chanoei
the ale-house or gfti-shop i
school."

" But will not edocation
awakening ?"

The Godfrey Famify; or, Queitiani of th$ Day.

477

'^ Education on a right basis would
mdoubtedlj do much, but not educa-
tion on a selfish basis ; not if the high-
est aim is to improve in temporalities,
not if Tirtue is proposed as the best
policy to forward earthly views. This
voald be merely teaching a system
of lelfish calculation that would make
nan neither wiser nor better, and con-
Mqoently not happier."

''And what other motive would you
nggest, brother?"

Engene glanced at his father and
Ittsitited. After a moment's pause,
be said: ''Some philosophers, and
UMDg them the divine Plato, have
thoQght that within man dwelt an es-
snee called a soul, and that its culture
fimushed motives superior to all others
in enlightening man. There are other
theories respecting the soul worth
itedying too, I think. That which has
iniliKDoed Europe during eighteen
himdred years lias been the religion of
Clriat. Have you ever studied that,
Heto?"

^ *No! I thought it was a supcrsti-
^ akin to, though distinct from, the
■ndttit pagan mythology."

"lou will not find it so." rejoined
|«r brother, ** or rather you will find
It the opposite. Paganism is the wor-
■hip of self, of sensuality, of self-ag-
P'l'ldisement, and of physical power.
wiiiiaQity is the worship of spiritu-
^T> it triumphs over selfishness by
<fi^ love, and elevates the soul by
^ same influence above the paltry
▼lews emanating from an exclusive
•^bewoo to man's lower nature."

*f. Godfrey's lowering brow betok-
^ a rising storm. Eugene made
^ ncape, and Hester laid her hand
^berfiuher's shoulder, and said coax-
"8^1 •'Did you not say I might study
^1^ infliience, papa, that has afiectcd
5j>»«iily ? Why not study this of
*ij|ch Eugene speaks r
^Hester, there is a serpent in the
1^ which has the power of fixing
bis eje on the bird he marks for his
fi^f and his fascination is such that
1^ merely continuing to gaze he draws
V victim straight into his mouth."

"What of this, father?"

"It is so of superstition also; it
strikes a chord in the human heart,
which, once awakened, becomes rest-
less evermore. Let it but once attract
your notice, it fascinates, monopolizes
eYQTj faculty, and the strongest minds
have fallen victims to its baneful power
of concentrating the attention. Let it
alone, my child."

CHAPTEB XIV.

THE DEATU-BED OP THE DUKE OP DURI-
MOND.

The ilhiess of the Duke of Dun-
mond became more and more serious.
Adelaide's friends ofiered to join her,
but she said the duke*8 mind required
peculiar treatment, and that more com-
pany in the house might annoy him.
From the time of his leaving England
the duke's associates had observed a
great alteration in his manners and
habits. Whereas he was formerly
the gayest of the gay, he now shun-
ned society. Soon af'ter his arrival at
Vienna he had engaged an Italian
servant of seemingly unusual educa-
tion and seriousness, and him he ad-
mitted into his confidence ; to him he
entrusted the direction of his private
afiairs. When he returned home, at
those different intervals we have men
tioned, this servant accompanied him,
and was treated by the duke less as a
humble dependent than as a valuable
friend. The man held aloof from the
other inmates of the castle, and was
waited on in his own apartment by the
duke's express order. Now, when the
duke returned home, he was accom-
panied not only by this Italian gentle-
man or servant, whichever he might
be, but by two other Italian valets,
very serious for their state in life, who
waited on the duke and on his friend
to the exclusion of the English me«
nials \Aio had formerly access to the
ducal apartments.

The duke was a prisoner in his own
room, rarely could he ever leave his
bed. Adelaide came at stated intcrvab

478

The Godfr^ Famly ; or, Qu$9limu ef Ae Dag.

to inquire after the state of his health,
and in all formality took her seat at
his side. Madame de Meglior often
accompanied her, and to the surprise
of hoth ladies a request was ur^^entlj
preferred that Euphrasie might be in-
duced to pav daily morning visits to
the sick chamber, at a time when
none were usually admitted.

The duchess looked her astonish-
ment, but the duke took her • hand
with more kindness and less of cere-
mony than usual, and said :

"Nay, do not be surprised, your
grace ; I am a poor man, now about
to ap|>car before my Maker. I need
all the assistance I can get, and I have
faith in the prayers of Euphrasie. The
hour named for her is the hour of
prayer : if you will come also, believe
me you will be welcome."

" Prayer, what prayer V*

" The most solemn prayer that can
be offered, that which accompanies
the most holy sacrifice of the new law.*'

As the duke spoke, M. IMartigni,
the man of business we have spoken
of, pulled aside a curtain which had
been hung before an alcove op[)03ite
to which the dukc*s bed had been plac-
ed, and there a beautiful little marble
altar, appropriately adorned, became
visible. Adelaide gazed in mute sur-
prise.

"What am I to infer from this,
your grace ?"

" That at the last hour, I, a misera-
ble sinner, dare to hope pardon from
an outraged God, because he sent his
Son to die on the cross for me I O
Adelaide ! the gods of this world, as
your father so justly calls them — ^the
gods of this world, pride, lust, sensu-
ality, love of power, and ambition, but
rise to reproach us when we draw near
to our end. Long, too long did I re-
sist my sweet Ellen's lessons ! I felt,
indeed, that something within me said
we could not utu^rly die; but I was
leading a life for self — I could tiot see
the truth ; but at last, late, too late I
knew my duty. Adelaide, fcr two
years past I have been reconciled to
the Catholic church I"

^It is to attend Mass, then, I pn-
sume, that your grace desires £uphn>
sio's company?* said Adelaide.

"It is," replied the duke; ""if uy
will accompany her, they will be wei-
come."

But this the duchess took espedil
oare to prevent. She whispered to
Madame de Meglior, as they quitted
the apartment:

" The makdy has touched his brun :
say nothing of what has happened."

This was the cause of Adelside'3
reluctance to have more companjin
the house. On this accoant she d^
clined alike the visits of the dnke't
relatives and of her own. She wisbei
the matter to be kept a profoood se-
cret from all ; and though she permit-
ted Euphrasie to comply wiiJi the
duke s request, it was oo the expreu
condition of her keeping the fact un-
known. But such precautions u
these, though feasible for a tim^sre
useless in the end. The duke*a dis-
order was of a painful, iingerin*!, and
variable nature. Sometimes he woull
be confined to his room, and even to
his bed for weeks together, then he
would rally a little, go into the ad-
joining sitting-room, and once or twice
even took an airing in his carria^.
No excuse could be framed, then, for
excluding relations so rigorously. Mr.
Godfrey became annoyed at the a:-
tempt, and at length, suspecting some
latent motive, sent Eugene to the cis-
tie to find out the secret, if there were=-'
one.

Eugene, on his entrance, met and re-
cognized Martigni, and by him was in-
troduced into the duke^s apartmeni«
before Adelaide knew he was in the
house. He found the duke proppei
up by pillows and seated near th(^
window. He greeted the young man
cordially, though with a half reproach
that he did not come before.

" I have been very ill, Eugene " li*?
said ; "sometimes I hardly thought lo
be alive till morning, and I wished lo
say a few words to your fiuher shoot
my wife, but none cif yoa came near
mer

n$ Godfrey FamOy; or, Qautions of Ae Day.

479

ene looked^ as his felt, earpnsed.
vere given to understand that a
om ns would not be agreeable
r grace " he said ; " and being
the intimation, especially as the
lOQ lasted so long, I came to-daj
rtain the cause."
;ave no such intimation, I wished
such exclusion, rather the con-
but peihaps Adelaide — I think
le the cause; you must excuse
later, Eugene. Perhaps she is
innoyed than she showed to me.
she is ever polite, but doubtless
annoyed ; perhaps it is natural
le should be so," and the duke
ed.

raoyed I At what, may it please
prace ? You cannot think that
red' is a term applicable to my
I feeling at your illness ?"
» ! DO I not at my illness, no ! But,
e, I have spent a long life of
before the world, and ere I die
Id like the world to know what
(9 the duchess would fain con-
liat I repent of my iniquities,
bow thankfully before the chas-
hand that has laid mo low, that
e my sufferings as the greatest
g, as a token that God has not
sn me, though for so many
£ forsook him. Eugene, I am a
icl"

id be thanked V* involuntarily es-
from the young man's lips, as
od was clasped in that of the
and tears started to his eyes,
be thanked!"

door opened and the duchess
L At one glance she under-
ill, and that her surmises of £u-
tad also been correct,
he duke is better to-day," she
said* ^We have had a long
f anxiety, but perhaps even yet
.y rally and be himself again."
dare not flatter you, sister," an-
L Eugene. ^His grace's looks
t those of a convalescent."
» I no I" said the duke. << No
for me again. Suffering, per-
(or a long time yet, but no
; bat I know not why my ill-

ness should induce your grace to lead
so lonely a life as you have lately
chosen. Let me beg of you to sur-
round yourself with your family ; Eu-
gene says they wait but your bid-
ding."

Adelaide colored. ^ I fear the dis-
turbance will be too much for your
grace's repose."

^ Not at all, not at all ; the house is
large, many might be in it and I not
hear a sound. I should be gratified
by knowing that you had friends with
you when I depart. Send for your
friends, I beg of you. Eugene, per-
haps you will write to Mr. Godfrey
in my behalf, to inform him of my
wishes ?'*

^ I will, your grace."

And the family came ; and still
Adelaide tried to conceal from her
father a secret which was already
known to Eugene. She scarcely
hoped to be able to do so long ; but the
annoyance to her was so excessive
that she could not bring herself to
speak of it, and she hoped others would
decide, as she tried to decide in her own
mind, that the duke's intellect was af-
fected. But then Eugene! he was
smitten with the same mania I She
felt sure of that, though no words had
ever passed on the subject.

• • • • •

" Mr. Godfrey," said the duke, when
at length there was an interview be-
tween the two—" Mr. Godfrey, tell me
what you wish me to do more for your
daughter. A handsome jointure is se«
cured to her ; the estates are entailed ;
but tell me anything else I can do to
promote her happiness, and it shall be
done."

This was the spu^t in which the in-
valid conversed, and in which he exe-
cnted all that was proposed to him for
Adelaide. She had no cause of com-
plaint, and his manifest care of her
softened that haughty heart a b'ttlc.
Had he not been a Catholic she could
have been grateful to him; but she
was the more irritated at this fact, that
now she dared not set up the plea of
imbecility to aecoont for it, for that

480

The Godfreif Famify; or, Quettiaiu tfA§ Dajf.

plea would have invalidated the new-
ly drawn up documents in her favor ;
all her hope consisted in concealment
Eugene was oflen with the duke,
who at length ventured to speak to him
on a subject which caused him great
mental anguish. He had never been
able to trace Ellen, nor to transmit to
her any pecuniary aid. He suspected,
indeed, that the Catholic bishop could
have afforded him information, but he
was inflexible in refusing to do so. A
considerable sum of money had been
set apart for Ellen's use, and a fortune
provided for the boy. ** Perhaps," said
the duke, '^ after my death the bishop
might enable you, Eugene, to trace the
mother and child, and induce them to
accept the provision. Will you under-
take the commission ?'

*^ Most willingly," said Eugene.
"When I am dead, let it be,"
said the duke. "Ellen will take
nothing from me living — when I am
dead she will be more easily per-
suaded. I know she must wish a
high education for her son. She
will not, I hope, refuse* assistance for
that But even if she does, I have
settled his money separately, that he
may be sure of getting it Tell Ellen,
too, that I died a Catholic ; I know she
has long prayed for this ; and tell her
that I rejoice now that I have no child
save hers, my only son. Let strangers
take the estate that had so nearly
wrecked my soul. O Eugene ! none
but Catholics can understand the ben-
ediction pronounced by our Lord on
poverty! The possession of power,
of wealth, of glory, fan our egotistical
feelings, and lead us more and more
astray. I think I should not dare to
trust myself with them again, had I
' still power to use them. And I thank
God I have not the power, lest the
temptation should again prove too
strong for my virtue."

The duke lingered on for months,
long months. How tediously did
those months pass to the Grodfrey fam-
ily — to the duchess in particular — to
all, save Eugene. In the sick-chnm-
ber he pass^ most of his time. To

Adelaide's joy, her father had not jvt
discovered the fatal secret He vis
so busy, acting for the duke, tnnsid-
ing business, arranging tenantry, tic;
and then he spent long hours in the
glorious pagan temple, the godi of
which he had taken eare to secure u
Adelaide's personal possesflion, andfor
the reception of whidi be was boildiag
a large hall at the jointore-hoose, tfatt
when the castle they now inhi^'ted
should pass to the heir^t-law, be
might be able to take possessioo of
these trophies of art at onoe.

Such was the friendship and deli-
cacy of the roan of the world! The
summer passed, the winter came, sod
a wintry change came over the invaTid.
One evening he called his wife, his
friends, his domestics, every inmste
of the house, into his presence, and, one
by one, begged their forgiveness for
every uneasiness he had caused them,
for every bad example he had set tbem,
and begged of them to pray for him u
for one who was about to appear be-
fore God, to give account of a mis-
spent life. To Adelaide* and to her
father, mother, and sister, this appeared
like a well-acted scene ; but the do-
mestics, nay, even^Madame de Megiior
retired in tears.

Night came. An oppression wai
over the household. None cared to
retire to rest, and yet none dared sgsio
approach the duke's apartment Mn*
Godfrey sat in Adelaide's room thit
night while Hester was with Madame
dc Meglior. Euphrasie was miasio^*
but, as usual, was foi^gotten. Even
Mr. Godfrey partook in some mcasnie
of the excitement. He had asked tbe
physician that evening more anxioa»l/
than usual, how the patient was ; sod
though the response had been, ** Some-
what better," he, with the hoosehoU,
did not give it credence.

He paced his chamber, lay dawnoo
a sofa, rose, and paced it again ; look-
ed at his watch— one, two, three, fa>r
o'clock ; how long the hoars weretbtt
night! He opened his door, walked
out, and paused at the door of hisdau^
ter s room. He heard speaking gtOr

Tie €hdflrey Fanaly ; or, QueiHam of the Day.

481

ped, his wife opened the door

either she nor the daughter

in bed.

lews ?^ whispered he.

All is quiet in the duke's

go and see," he said,
sed through the whole ret-
domestics in the galleries.
ad gone to bed, yet all were
ot one had ventured to make
It the sick-room door,
dfrey passed silently on, his
as scarcely heard. A dull
of low continuous speaking
. the duke's apartment. The
not locked ; he turned the
itly and went in without rap-
bat a scene met his view !
ere lighted on the altar. Be-
t in prayer, knelt Euphrasie.
ger, Martigni, robed in the
jtments, was in the act of
e Holy of Holies upon the
the dying man, whom Eu-
tenderly supporting in his
i sick man sank back on the
Jie priest left him, and the
ntinued ; Mr. Godfrey paus-
nsation of wondering anger
him, yet he waited for the
1 of the priest. Eugene was
3S by the bedside. The cer-
;r, Mr. Godfrey approached
him, and in a harsh wliisper

rhat mummery is this ?"
rose. The sick man opened

A bright smile broke over
cs. "No mummery," he
L
^in there was a pause, and

for breath, and the eyes
'hey opened again : ^^ Jesus
By ; Mary help," were the
he uttered, and he died.
time for explanation. Mr.
drcd. On leaving the cham-
ame aware that imprudently
e had lefl half open had par-
aled to the domestics, now
without the chamber, that
unusual was taking place
their questions, Mr. 6od«
VOL, rr. 31

frey replied : " He is dead." And in-
stantly the chamber was filled with
weeping mourners. Good, kind, and
liberal had been the master they had
lost, and he was much beloved. -To
their wonder they beheld the altar on
which stood the unextinguished can-
dles. Before it knelt the priest, chaunt-
ing, in a very low voice, the office for
the dead, which was responded to by
the Italian valets kneeling beside the
bed. Euphrasie had disappeared, but
on the bed lay the corpse, one hand
grasping the crucifix. They stood
rooted to the spot at the strangeness
of the scene. They had not yet satis-
fied their wonder when the duchess
entered. She cast one look on the bed ;
then approaching the priest, said :

^' You will please to quit this cham-
ber as soon as convenient, and disen-
cumber the room of these useless toys."

Eugene sprang to her side. " Sis-
ter," said he, " in the name of Heaven,,
do nothing rashly. Leave these things
to me ; to me give your orders ; oa
my honor they shall be obeyed."

The duchess bethought herself one
moment. " Clear the room of these,
then," she said, pointing to the won-
dering domestics.

Eugene obeyed.

" Now," said the duchess, " let there
be an end of this foolery. In an hour
I will send those hither whose duty it
is to tend the dead. By that time let
no vestige remain of this offensive for*
eign trumpery ; and let these strangers
quit the house."

The tone was too decided to be dis-
puted ; the commands were obeyed ;
and so successfully did Mr. Gt)dfrey
assist his daughter in giving the lie to
the rcik)rts that were spread through
the neighborhood, that it came at last
to be considered as an established fact
that the whole scene of the death-bed
was got .up by a concerted plan of the
Italian valets, who hoped in this way^
to convert their master at his dying
hour, and the duke himself being in-
sensible made no opposition! Thus
can the '< great ones " of the earth <^
condescend to Ue, (hough they would

482

The Godfteff Fotmi^; wr, QuutMm ^Ab Dag.

cbaDenge a man to a duel who dared
to qnestion the nicety of their honor.

For many days the duke lay in state
a hid ancestral hall; from far and
near crowds came to gaze on the
gorgeously fitted up apartment, hung
with emblazoned hatchments, encircled
round with all the trappings of woe.
Eugene had quitted the house at the
time of the duke's decease, in company
with the foreigners his sister had com-
manded to depart He reappeared
on the day of the funeral, and request-
ed to speak with his mother. To his
surprise he found her haggard and
worn, and traces of excessive weeping
were on her countenance. She greeted
him kindly, made him sit down beside
her, took his hand in hers and held it,
but wept instead of speaking. Eugene
was puzzled and alarmed, for all agi-
tation was unusual with his mother.
They were alone together, yet the si-
lence was not broken. After awhile
a servant came to say that the pro-
cepsion was forming for the funeral, ho
supposing that Eugene came expressly
to attend it.

** Shall I go, mother?" said Eugene,
bat his mother held him fast, and
shook her head.

*< It would be better not,*' she said ;
** they might be bitter even on a day
like this. No, Eugene, do not see
your father yet. Go home, I will be
there in a few days. We will talk
matters over, and all will be right
again. Your father and Hester will
remain a short time with AdeUiide.
But you and I will go home. Do not
stay here now, but meet me tomorrow
at the post-house ten miles from this.
I will be there at ten o'clock. I will
stop the carriage for you to ride home
with me.**

Eugene wonderingly assented ; and
as she seemed anxious to get him out
of the house, he left as soon as the
vast cortege had disappeared.

Crowds of nobility, crowds of gen-
try, crowds of tenantry accompanied
the corpse as it was borne to the fami-
ly vault. A collation was afterward
^read ^ the guests ; they partook of

it, went home, and in less tbani
were eager in paying court U
duke, and the late one was to
though he had never been.

CHAPTER XT.
TUB MOTHEH KSD SOH-

It was a strange and certai
a very pleasant feeling to £a
find himself thus secretly, as
in his mothers company. He
tion, however, had subsided,
the journey she was even che
times, and she made not the i
allusion to the subject which 1
turbcd her. On their arrival
she busied herself more than h
been her wont in domestic and
ry affairs, and kept Eugene c
in many ways. There was, he
a tenderness in her* intercom
him that he had rarely obser
fore, though she had ever been
a most loving mother. Son»
passed, and then a letter cam
made Mrs. Godfrey turn pale
read it. Eugene^ alarmed, n
placed himself beside her. ^
thing the matter, dearest moth
askocL

" Yes, no, yes ! that is, tl
coming home."

*< And who are they who cai
this alarm 7*

" Your father and Hester.''

** My father I he has ever \o\
dearly ! Mother, my dear mo
explain yourself !"

The poor lady laid ber h
Eugene's shoulder, and wept
geno tried in vain to soothe hi
length he said, ^ May I see th
mother T

*• No, no ; you will know
tents but too soon. Now, 1
answer me: have I not lor
well ? have I not been a good
to you ?"

<<The best of mothen," si
gene, canssiqi^.

Tk§ CMfhf FamUjf; or, QmiUmu of <b Dag.

488

I joo love me somewhat —
id do something for me I"
thing tn^ mj power, dear
I would lay down mj life

not yoar life I want you to
h, foolish boy, but yoar fancies.
her has taken most serious
U your religious demonstra-
d swears he will disinherit
ss you recant. Unfortunate-
igh some of the estate is en-
nch of it is not, and you will
inoely fortune if you deny his

i does he wish T*

. you renounce fit toto^ all

friends and all Catholic opin-

e made no reply,
me, my only son, my best
' greatest joy, did it depend
would not shackle your free-
iction ; Christianity, Moham-
n, or any other ism, might be
ption. Your happiness is my
id whaterer I might think of
3d, I would cot let it stand
me and my love for you.
I not thus with your father.
not suffer a Catholic in his

ansed; still Eugene replied
e went on : ^ Eugeoe, you
\i be the cause of my death !
a would not T' and she threw
s about him. ^Yet these
will surely kill me; I dare
'ou how I have suffered dur-
ist few weeks."
ve seen it, dear mother, and
only partly guessed the cause,
sympathize with your unhap-

i yon will remedy it T
lot see how just yet Thought
ftee. I dare not bind myself
ftt another's pleasure."

yon need not declare your

, mother, I must be free : free
free to act according to the
)f my conscience. I learned
etaity from yourself, dear

mother; do not now belie your own
teadiings. You told me ever to seek
the truth, and to act upon it when
found. I will not bind myself to fol-
low another course, were a kingdom
to be the purchase of the compro-
mise."

•• Or your mother^s love, Eugene T

^ My mother will but love me better
for practising the lessons that she
taught me. I know my mother's
principles, and I do not fear the loss
of her love."

"Flatterer! but were it even so,
your father is serious, Eugene. He
will not see yon again, imless yon
accede to his demand."

" When is he coming home 1"

" On the day after tomorrow."

" Then I depart to-morrow ; I will
not encounter him in his present hu-
mor. Besides, I promised the late
duke to execute a commission for him ;
it is time I set about iL"

" And how will you live, rash boy ?''

" Will he not continue my allowance
tome?"

" I do not know, at least I do not
want the question mooted just now.
To prevent the necessity of it, I had a
deed drawn up the other day which
will supply you with necessaries till
you return to reason." And Mrs.
Godfrey took from her bureau a very
business-like document, which proved
to be a deed of gift of the principal
part of the property settled upon her-
self and her heirs. " Use this," she
said, "until right reason returns to
you."

" My mother T

" No words now ; I did it to relieve
my own mind, for I must consent to
your departure. We will hope for
better times, for I see I cannot change
you at present."

The property thus settled on our
young hero was but a modest portion
for one educated as Eugene had been ;
yet to those numerous middle people
who struggle daily with economy it
would have seemed a fortune.

Eugene departed with a gloom vpon
his feelmgB certainly, yet not with

484

I%» Godfrey FamU^ ; or, QuMfibiu 9f Am Da^.

hopelessness. He proceeded at ooce
to call on the bishop, from whom be
huped to obtain tidings of Ellen ; but
rhe bishop was gone to Rome, and M.
Bcrtolot with him, and they were not
expected back till the spring. It was
dull work spending that winter alone,
for to return to Cambridge was not to
be thought of. At last the spring ad-
Tanced, and the buoyancy of youth re-
stored hope to his spirit ; ho resolved
to take a pedestrian tour through
Wales while waiting the bishop^s re-
turn. Several months had passed
^nce he left hb home. His mother
often wrote to him, but no invitation to
return came with her letters. Young,
and desirous of knowledge, his project-
ed expedition would have been ac-
ceptable to him but for this circum-
stance of domestic estrangement.
However, ho wandered on, with what
courage he might, and found himself
already on foot, with knapsack on his
back, pursuing his travels. The rage
for making tours was not at that time
what it has since become. The scenes
were comparatively untrodden and
undescribed, so tliat the pleasure and
the charms of novelty at least were
Eugene's. He wandered on for some
days, delighted with tlio picturesque
scenery, and gathering lieahh and
vigor from his primitive mode of
travelling.

One tine morning ho rose partic-
ularly early, and had gone some
miles, when he began to feel the
need of some refreshment lie had
negected to inquire where tliis could
be obtained, and began to wonder
where he was likely to obtain any
breakfast. Fcelin<]r somewhat impa-
tient at the length of the road, ho
climbed a higii bank on the right
hand side, to gain a view of the coun-
try, and gladly perceived that immedi-
ately below lay a scattered village.
It was the first of May, and children
were carrying garlands from house to
house. The morning was lovely, and
every thing wore the aspect of happi-
Oar traveller sprang down the

bank, and made his way over (enoes
into the village. He stopped it the
first cottage he came to ; it wu the
picture of neatness ; the honey-sockk
and sweet-brier climbed over the
porch, and the little garden-plot in
front was the very cmbodinenc of
beauty. All the early flowers were
grouped in beds, most elegandj a^
ranged. A dark-eyed boy stood id
the porch, watching the garliodi
which the children were dbplaying.
He caught sight of Eugene staadiiij^
at the gate, and came forward. Hii
open-hcartedness was painted oo hii
countenance.

^Can I serve you, sir ?" said theboj.
'< You appear to be a stranger here."

*' I am a stranger," replied Eugene,
^ that is, I am a traveller. Can joa ^
tell me where I may find rest aod i
breakfast?"

The boy opened the gate, and ooo-
ducted Eugene into the porch, lie
then went to call his mother.

A middle-aged woman of superior
mannera came forward, and bade hia
welcome :

'< You will find no inn, su*, nearer
this than a mile or two ; pray walk is
and partake of such fare as our cotta^
affords."

Good tea, eggsu bread and batter
were produced, and Eugene did tbea
ample justice; but during the mesl
and after it was over, he could not
help being struck with the air of botk
mother and son, and the appeanuee
of the phice altogether. The waOi
were only whitewashed, and the floor
uncarpeted, but on the said walls htiag
paintings of a high order, and in t
small recess stood a beautiful marble
statuette of our Blessed Lady. Ik
features of the boy, too, seemed tbox
of a face familiar to him. A tboo^
glanced through his mind aa he pad
on the finely formed ikce. ''Thank
you warmly for your hospitality, youo^
sir," said he, taking the boy s haai
and drawing him nearer to him. ** NoVt
please to tell me by what name I i0
to remember yea 7*

tke Godfr^ Family; or, QuMunu of A$ Dag.

485

oame is Henry Daubrej,*'
•oy.

rejy" thoaght Eugene ; ''can
sr maiden name ? I almost
Eilwood was the name he
* He hesitated ; then, tarn-
i ladj, remarked, in a some-
strrassed manner : ''Judging
paintings, madam, I should
ou, like myself, are almost
' here. These are no country

na did these herself,'' ex-
le boy. The lady signed to
» be silent. " She had not
5 always ;" she said.
m, my impertinence, mad-
Eugene, "but this young
ires so strikingly resemble
I friend I have lately lost,
n but fancy he must be in
related to him."
was your friend's name ?"
>uke of Durimond."
ly turned alarmingly pale, as
3d forth, " And is the Duke
»nddead?"
led in my arms, about four

p."

vas a long pause, which no

ed inclined to break. At

gene resumed : " The duke's

rly, puzzled many. He

[eft his wife suddenly, went

*\\ ill, for upward of two

iered greatly, even tortures

ly, which tortures he en-

\i the patience of a martyr,

I thankful for his sufferings.

a the sentiments of the moat

mtrition, immediately after

tbo Holy Viaticum."

Viaticum ! Was the duke a
»f

)came so latterly, though this
le public ; the fainily careful-
JL"

of thanksgiving, with clasp-
upraised, as it were, involun-
ofirmed Eugene's present!-
Lfler awhile he continued:
lie duke was. on his death-
larged me to seek out a lady,
L he entertamed a high es-

teem. I have a letter for her in my
knapsack. I will show it to you."*

The letter produced was directed,
" To Ellen, from Colonel Eilwood on
his death-bed." The lady's hand
closed on the lines. Eugene made no
resistance. The lady retired to an
inner apartment. The boy followed
her. An hour elapsed; stifled sobs
were heard, but the lady came not
back. At length the boy returned
with an open note. It contained these
words:

" You have guessed rightly : return
in a few days ; I cannot see you now.
When you return, ask for

"Ellen Daubret."

"I wiir return on this day week,
tell your mother so !" was the verbal
message Eugene delivered to the boy.

^ I will,** said the boy ; and Eugene
departed.

Ellen's account of herself when
Eugene did return, was, that she had
made a very comfortable subsistence
by the sale of her paintings, which she
had disposed of to a London dealer,
to whom she was introduced by the
Comte de Villeneuve, who had watch-
ed over her interests with a zeal truly
fraternal, ^hi^ and her boy had dwelt
together in seclusion, he giving her
what help he could in the garden and
in her domestic affairs, she, in re-
turn, instructing him to the best of her
power.

" He loves learning, Mr. Eugene,"
she said, " and will soon be beyond my
teaching ; besides, he wishes to become
a priest, but how to get him the nec-
essary instruction in this most preju-
diced country is a real enigma."

" The Abbe Martigni, who was the
duke's private chaplain, and who is
cognizant of all the facts connected
with his position, would, I doubt not,
take charge of his education, if you
were willing," replied Eugene; "but
how would you be able to bear the
separation necessary in that case?"

" I should fix my abode near, and
find some occupation for myself," said
the mother. " God forbid ipy seUsb

48G

The €Mfrmf Family; or, Qu$ttumi nf Cb Day.

liffection should ' stand between mj
child and his yocation."

Ellen might have said that her oc-
cupation was already found, for wher-
ever there was an act of kindness to
do, there Ellen found work. Had she
admitted Eugene to the inner room of
her own cottage, he might have found
an old paralytic woman, who, deserted
by all her friends, was taken care of
by this good Samaritan and tended
with the affection of a daughter. The
duke's legacy to her was now employ-
ed entirely in acts of mercy and of
charity, offered up for the repose of
his souL Not one penny was ap-
propriated to her own use, for she
still lived on the product of her pencil.
On the return of the bishop the Abb6
Martigni was appointed to a mission,
and Henry Darbrey resided with him
as his pupil, preparatory to his being
sent to the seminary, aiding his tutor
in that semi-concealed fulfilment of
his high duties which was then the
characteristic mode of English Catho-
licity, induced by English semi-tolera-
tion of Catholic religious rites. The
mother lived close by, and it was not
long ere her house was known as a
house of mercy, a refuge for the poor,
a hospital for the sick, a haven of
spiritiuil consolation to any who need-
ed the kmd offices practised beneath
its roof. Penitents, lovingly attracted
by her angelic sweetness, often came,
08 it were, by stealth to inquire of her
the way to God, and by her were led
back into the fold whence they had
strayed while inquirers, touched by
her life of self-denial, found the prpju-
dioes in which they had been brought
up melt away, and many were led to
embrace the saving truths which bind
the children of the church together in
the one fold of Christ, at the feet of
one Lord, who gave us one faith, one
baptism.

CHAPTER XYI.

OF O0N8CIENCB AND LtBERTT
OF ACTIOX.

Whui Eugene bad ftilfilled the

commission of the late duke,

made the arrangement for

Daubrey with the Abbe 1

spoken of in the last chaptei

thought him of his own

Whither should he bend

steps ? As long as he had bee

in Ellen's afiaLrs, the exciteo

in some measure kept him

prevented his realizing what il

homeless, to have relatives w

your absence, loved ones t<

your presence causes annoyan

tive annoyance. To be alon

wide world of sin, without the

of family ties ; to be dbownc

an encumbrance, or, worse, an

incubus, crushing vitality and

ness in the home circle ! wha

ing it produces ! It requires )

courage, a courage that is tl

of faith, that is sustained b)

to enable one to bear it I

working hard the while. Eug

bear it bravely, though he feh

acutely. He determined to s

Bertolot, to take counsel m

the future. His way lay past

ter Adelaide's present rcsidem

duchess was now settled in the j<

house. Decidedly, had Eugene i

she was alone, or with those

him were strangers, he wool

passed quietly on his wa

Euphrasie, did not Euphnu;

with the duchess ? At least I

posed so; and though with ai

he conquered his reluctance a

nounced himself at his sister*

sion.

The duchess received him
almost haughtily. Still the
man waited, in the hope of see
for whom the visit was intende
long two hours passed in pain
constrained conversation. Still
Madame de Meghor nor her di
appeared.

Eugene rose to take his leave
as if by a sudden impulse, exd
^ But, my aunt, Adelaide, anc
emoiselle de Meglior, I most
without paying my respects U
Will jroQ not lei one ^ jrov

Tie Gfodjrey Family; or, QuesHom of Oe Day.

487

n that I am here and wish to
nr

ther the countess nor Made-
I Euphrasie are with me," re-
e dachese.

! where arc they, then? at
tHaUr

ink not ; thej led me at Duri-
2a6tle, before I came here at
lej went to Annie then ; where
) now I do not know."
?e they, then, left Annie ?*
\ ! Sir JPhilip took some excep-
£aphras]e*8 Jesuitical* princi-
d the ladies disappeared one

ippeared'I where did thej go

one knows; truth to say,
this is a very disagreeable
these quarrels about religion
'ible, and have brought much
ness to all of us ; the less we
at it the better."
my aunt and Euphrasie ?"
UTe already told you I do not
lything about them, and I must
o not wish to know."
er!"

Idelaide replied no more. Her
!88 and dignity, if they did
\ Eugene, repelled him. He
house in disgust,
oext visit was to his sister
but it would be more in order
e to relate the occurrences
ad taken place with regard to
He and her mother since the
leath. Immediately after that
he two ladies experienced a
hange of demeanor toward
res in the persons of all by
:hey were surrounded; even
lials caught the infection, and
with supercilious insolence
the abetter of popery and the
Fesuit, as they termed the emi-
idies. Madame de Meglior,
of Annie's former invitation,
i express her willingness to ac-
ow, if Annie still desired their
r. The answer was most fa-
and within a week of the dukc*8
>c<^am<» and Euphrasie had

quitted his haughty and to them now
unfriendly widow."

They had not been long at their
new abode ere another source of un-
easiness arose. Alfred Brookbank
had always vehemently disliked Eu-
phrasie, and observing the real pleas-
ure that her company afforded the
now too often desolate Lady Conway,
he resolved to do his utmost to destroy
that pleasure. The reason of the
ladies' departure from the protection
of the duchess was not indeed guess-
ed ; so secret had all tmnsactions con-
nected with the late duke s death been
kept, the very word Catholic was sup-
pressed where possible; it was not
supposed, nor to be supposed, that
they had been driven from so lofty a
mansion. Still, Alfred Brookbank
knew the religion of Euphrasie, and
he deemed he could so use that know-
ledge as to spite Annie.

Sir Philip had at first been pleased
with the new-comers : their history in-
terested him, and native good feeling
prompted him to show them kindness
and hospitality as his wife^s relatives ;
but Alfred soon worked on his horror
of popery. Of all things, the worthy
baronet detested a Catholic the most,
and Euphrasie was, suggested the
lawyer, a Jesuit m petticoats ; an in-
sinuating adventuress, one who would
risk the downfall of a noble house to
make a convert, even of a cook- maid.

Annie found great relief in the so-
ciety of her guests. She sympathized
with her aunt, and entertained her fond-
ly ; Euphrasie she had always liked,
despite her taciturnity. She would
gladly have induced them to prolong
their visit to an indefinite period, and
was greutly disappointed when she
first became aware of Sir Philip's
revulsion of feeling in their regard.
This revulsion, indeed, soon mastered
him so completely that he could
scarcely bring himself to be civil to
them in his outward demeanor.

Anuie remonstrated that as her rela-
tives, and as the relatives of the God-
frey family, they were at least entitled
torespecL

488

Th$ God/re^ IbnUfy ; or, Quuium$ ^ th$ Jkf^.

^ A respect that will place them at
liberty to proselytize all the parish?
No, no, my lady; priratc feeling
must be sacrificed to public duty (*
and the baronet drew himself up in a
very Brutus-like fashion.

** But my aunt is not a Catholic
that I am aware of,'' pleaded Annie ;
*'and as for Euphrasie, she scarcely
speaks, so how can she convert any
one?"

" *Twere hard to teD, yet we know
these silent people are the very ones
to be dreaded. One thing I am de-
termined on, she shall not remain
here."

^' But how can we turn them out of
the house ?**

" Tliat is your business, my lady ;
you invited them, now get rid of
them."

The speech was a cruel one, for al-
though Sir Philip did not know they
had already been ejected from the
other part of the family, he knew that
Mr. Godfrey luid Hester were so taken
up just now in establisliing the duch-
ess in her jointure- house and in re-
moving thither the divinities of the far-
famed pagan temple, that they could
think of nothing else. Mrs. Godfrey
was at home, but was said to be in del-
icate health, and Eugene was absent ;
none seemed to know whore or why.
A moment's reflection might have told
Sir Philip that just then the unfortu-
nate emigrant ladies had no home save
the one in which they now found them-
selves ; but he consulted only his own
dogged temper, and tormented his wife
at every private interview to get rid
of them.

But Annie knew not how, and her
obstinacy in not complying with his
commands enraged him; Sir Philip
had a high idea,pf his marital authori-
ty, though he knew not whence he de-
rived it, nor, indeed, how to enforce it.
In this latter particuhir, however, he
sought counsel from his friend Brook-
bank, as he termed his lawyer, and
this latter was not slow in using
every advantage he could obtain over
Annie.

^ Prudence and patience. Sir FbiBp,
will accomplish xill things." said the
lawyer ; ^ it would be unwise, as joa
perceive, to incur the odium of tun-
ing those ladies oat of doon, until tlie
grounds of complaint become ostnsi-
ble; wait awhile, they will become sa
From my knowledge of the amiable
character of the lady, your wife, Sir
Philip, I should be perfectly surprised
at this resistance to your legitimate
authority, did I not fear (hat my hdj
herself is somewhat infected with the
opinions of the young French refugee.
You, Sir Philip, are well aware, it-
tachment to that baneful creed ove^
comes every other sense of duty."

*• My lady Conway a Cai holier
ejaculated the now bewildered Sir
Philip.

"Nay, I say not that— I think not
that ; onlv a favorer of her cousio'i
views. No open profesaioo of Catho-
licity, only a secret incliiiatj(» thei«-
unto."

'^ They shall be separated this very
day," thundered the baronet.

** Pardon me. Sir Philip ; I have tho
utmost confidence in your judgment;
your just antipathy to popish supn^
stition fortifies my own. But if yon
will allow me one word which appcan
to differ, but in fact agrees with joor
opinion ; may I be permitted to mJt
that it would be hardly prudent junt
now to give any air of martyrdom to
this business. Weak women ore
flattered thereby. Your object is. of
course, to detach Lady Conway from
every Catholic idea. Your strong good
sense and powers of reasoning will
eflect this, provided that you do not
rouse the strong obstinacy of feoiafo
nature. Wait till the visit ends in t
natural manner, and then take meas-
ures to restore your lady wife to her
senses."

Alfred knew well that in giving this
advice he ran no risk of seeing it act-
ed upon. The character of the man
he addressed was too ungovernable for
that; he had but roused into fiercer
play the half-dormant passion, the halt
kUent BuspiciQo. Sir Pbifip appealed

Tk$ Godfrey Family; or, Que$Uon$ of the Day.

489

see, but, as Alfred intended,
calties were now aroused to
&Torable construction on his
ions. His tone became ;nore
ind eyen more authoritative
its wont Politeness and
oe were at an end. To his
ts he scarcely behayed with

iras too deeply hurt to feel all
lation that this course would
haye led her to manifest.
all her endeavors to shield
lal insult the bereaved emi-
id to compensate by her oWn
attentions for the rudeness
sband. She even mastered
> ad calmly to remonstrate
m the subject, " Sir Philip,"
" have you considered that
ition of France cannot, from
nature of things, be perma-
: these ladies are of the haute
and one day their estates
stored to them P'
ok not ; nay, I hope not,"
*hilip. "As the French peo-
had the good sense to ban-
», I hope they will also have
mough to keep all Jesuits,
female, at a distance. Your
k female Jesuist, depend upon
mid not surprise me to dis-
. she is in actual correspond-
1 the Pope, or connected
cond Guy Fawkes for tlie
ip of this household. Get
my lady."

ow ? Just now they can go
Estcourt Hall nor to Ade-
Tiere am I to send them to ? '
owering passion, and in a
5 voice, the baronet replied :

larc a d ^n where they go

can't bear the sight of them

heart sank. The window
, and as her husband spoke
le aware that the ladies in
were seated in an alcove
ially screened from view by

boughs of the shrubs that
d it. They must have heard
^nation. At this moment

they rose, passed the window, bowing
as they passed to Annie. There was
something of mektncholy compassion
in that salute ; at least Annie thought
so. She longed to run after them, to
throw herself into her aunt's arms,
and weep out the bitterness of her
soul ; but her husband's eye was upon
her, and he was watching her emotions
with no friendly feelings. She turned
back into the library with him and en-
deavored to master her oppression.
The time passed drearily away as she
awaited their return from their walk ;
but in vain she waited, they came not ;
one hour, two hours, three hours ;
dinner was served and they came not«
The meal was taken silently; each
one was too jnuch absorbed in thought
to speak. A long evening was gone
through, and at length when l^r Philip
went out to speak to his farm bailiff,
Annie wandered in sadness on to
the lawn. It was a fitful night, the
clouds were chasing each other
through the atmosphere, here and
there revealing a star, now and then
disclosing the moon. A feeling of
desolation came over her, her grief
was too great for tears ; but when she
approached the deep haw-haw that
bounded the garden to the south, she
felt as if she could willingly lie down
therein and die. **Was the water
there deep enough to destroy life?
What is life? Is it something we
hold in common with cows, horses,
dogs ? That is easily destroyed I Is
man only an animal? If so, I at
least had better die, for what happi-
ness can I expect with such a mate as
I have? But animal life cannot be
all! What is it makes us so sure
of this ? O Euphrasie ! where are
you ? You could answer this ; why
are you so happy, why am I se wretch-
ed ? If it is not poverty that makes
unbappiness, what does make it?
What has Euphrasie more than I
have ? She is a wanderer, homeless,
penniless, yet I feel satisfied she is to
be envied even now."

Strange that in her vexation and
utter mortificatiouy Annie felt no in^

480

The Gfodfrey FamUyj or, QuutUnu of ike Dag.

tense aoxietj respecting the fete of
her gaests. She had a sort of belief
that Euphi-asie bore a charmed life,
and that under any circamstances slie
was ever the happiest person in the
circle in which slic might be placed.
She thouirht her aunt privileged in
having such a companion.

The deep night came, and Sir Philip,
uneasy at Annie's prolonged absence,
went to seek her. She was still lean-
ing over a rail close to the water's
edge. " Wluit are you doing there T
he said, but his tone was softer than
usual, for his wife was trembling with
emotion ; and her eyes were filled
with tears. lie took one hand in his,
and passed one arm round her waist,
to support her and draw her from her
position. "Are you ill, Annie?** he
asked.

Instead of replying, Annie asked in
a falteriiiir voice : ** What has become
, of them?"

"It matters not ; it was a provi-
dence that made them hear they were
not welcome. It saved us both some
uneasines.-^. They will be taken rare
of, never Fear. There is a sort of free-
masonry among such people. Only
don't let me see my wife. Lady Con-
way, make herself miserable about a
couple of papists : it would be too ab-
surd."

Two days after, toward the even-
ing, a stranger came, a poor Irish-
man, with a cart ; he brought a note
lo Annie. It was from Madame : she
thanked Annie cordially and affec-
tionately for her good wishes and kind
attention?; pleaded that a sudden
emergency had arisen which prevent-
ed her profiting longer from them ;
excused her informal leave-taking by
the same necessity, and begged Annie
would foi-wanl to her wliatever she
had left behind. Annie fairly cried
with vexation ; she questioned the
man as to where the ladies were, but
the man had sefm no ladies. A gen-
tleman, whose name lie had forgotten,
had given him the note and two keys,
which be said would unlock two trunks,
which were to be packed and teot

back. That was all be knev.
gentleman would meet him at !)»
pkce, and receive the trunks froi
But he was sure the gentlem:
not live there; he was going t
on. Annie could make out i
more. She packed the tmnl
self, and enclosed a fifty pound
of England note, with a depr
letter in one of the boxes. It
the money she had at that moi
hand.

A week elapsed, and a lettei
by a private hand ; the bearer I
the premises immediately on <
ing it The letter contained
dress, but it returned the fifly
note, ^ with thanks — it was doi
ed." Sir Philip was present wl
letter was opened ; his eyes wer
on Annie, and he sternly dem
" From whom V There was nc
native but to hand the letter!
and he exclaimed in a fury, ** a
it thus you would waste my sub
madam ? To nourish vi()er9, J
beasts I I will take care from \
forth your means of doing tbit
be lessened,*' and he stalked
nantly from the room, bearin
money and the letter with him.
was a manifest injustice, as the i
was Annie*8 private property, bj
of her marriage settlements ; bat
was pnyudice ever just ?

It was several weeks after tfai
Eugene made his appearanoe
quire after the refugee?. Annie
have greeted him warmly, b
Philip s haughty and distant m
plainly told him he was not wel
Eugene waited till the baroDd
quitted the apartment ere he inc
for his aunt and her step-daa
lie heard the tale relative to
withdrawal with undisguiaed iw
tion, and said :

" And you do not know win
become of them ? '

-No!'»

" And you saj mr fether dot
knowr

The CMfin^ Family; or, Qm^iaiu of ih Day.

491

11 he let his own sister and the
daughter of his friend suffer
It?"

ej cannot be suffering, they re-
be fiflj pound note."
at says nothing; or rather it
ey preferred suffering to insult.
le ! Annie ! I bad not dreamed
mid lend yourself to peraecu-
e this."

ung man/' said Sir PhiUp, who
tSntered the room, '' I am mas-
my own house ; I liave heard
niyersation with Lady Conway
»rd to your protege. I will
D papists here, nor any encour-
it given to them ; and the day
ady Conway holds communica-
;ain with papists, or with sus-
papists, without my sanction,
y she ceases to abide under one
th me."

ic looked as if she wished that
re already come, but she said
:. Eugene was watching her
whispered : " Wives must obey
osbands, Annie, in all that is
Adieu, I blame you no long-
ee where the fault lies. Adieu
lore." And Eugene hastened
le bouse without trusting him-
reply to the haughty speech of
ter.

whisper had been observed ; a
darkened Sir Philips brow,
brother has forgotten the forms
I breeding," he said, *' to enter
leman*s house and treat him
ontcmpt Is that what the
B religion enjoins ?"
B Catholic religion ! What do I
f the Catholic reUgion ? How
that influence our actions ?**
D do not favor Catholics in
art, I suppose, my lady ?"
t as Catholics. My regard for
yrie had no reference to religion

nice distinction, learnt of the

I suppose."

ever saw a Jesuit that I am
iSr said Annie.

thus the pair parted, to meet

again and jar, and live in jarring dis-
cord every day.

Had Annie been able to make Mr.
Godfrey understand how unjustly she
was treated, slie would have applied
for a separation ; but Mr. Grodfrey
'would not hear of such a thing.
^' He was glad, for his part," he said,
'< that Sir Philip took so sensible a
view of Catholic influence. It had
raised his son-in-law in his esteem,
and if Annie showed any disposition to
iTreak through the salutary regulations
laid down for her, it would be advisa-
ble rather to put her under restraint
as a lunatic, than to emancipate her
from marital controL Sir Philip had
the legal power of locking her up in
his own house ; and if ho did so for
such a cause as that, Mr. Godfi-ey
would hold him justified."

Mrs. Godfrey was in dismay. Her
health visibly declined. A melancholy
seemed to overspread her intellect, and
at times to overpower her. All was
changed at Estcourt Hall now. The
once fond, indulgent husband, seemed
to take but little notice of the ailments
of his faithful partner. He dreaded
her taking part with Eugene and An-
nie, if the subject were introduced, and
he avoided all intimate conversation.
Hester was too much wrapt up in her
own ideas to watch her mother closely.
She saw that the servants attended to
her, that there was no fear of her suf-
fering for want of care or nourish-
ment ; but unheedful of the power of
affection and of sympathy, she gave
her little personal attendance. An-
nie^s case she thought a hard one, and
once ventured to remonstrate with her
father on the subject; but Mr. Grod-
frey justified his proceedings by paint-
ing to her the horrors of popery in
glowing colors. He demonstrated to
her that all sincere Catholics were
fools, the wise ones hypocrites, of
whom it might be predicted as it was
of the soothsayers by Cicero, that it
was a wonder how one priest could
look another in the faoe without
laughing together at their success in
gnlliDg the publiA mind. ^NoW|"

492

The Godfrey Famify; or, Quetiums 0fa$ Da^

said Mr. Godfrey, " the object of these
priests and rulers being to subjugate
the human will, and to level the hu-
man reason to their standard, in order
that themselves may rule supreme, it
becomes the duty of every thinking
mind to war with the system on
principle. You, my dear daughter,"
continued the fond father, for fond
even to doting was Mr. Godfrey of
this one child, ^ you, my dear daughter,
would idolize the hero who fought and
achieved his country's freedom — exter-
nal freedom merely ; should you not
unite with those who would save the
world from mental bondage of the
most degrading order ?"

"Yes, if papistry be really this,"
said Hester; "but that it is difficult
to conceive it to be. But, grant that
it is so, Annie does not seem to be in
any way implicated in it. She dis-
claims all connection with it, and cer-
tainly she never used to manifest any
religious propensities whatever."

" Even so, surely no harm can come
of keeping her apart from papists for
awhile. If this is all she has to com-
plain of, her grievances arc not great."

" I think the real grievance, father,
is the shackling her liberty, denying
her freedom of intercourse. Tram-
pling on her freedom is no light mat-
ter."

" Hester, dear, listen : when two
people are yoked together, and their
interests differ, one must give way;
law and custom say this one must be
the wife. Now, if Sir Philip were
thought to encourage Catholics, his
political interests would suffer ; there-
fore he must not encourage them ; but
if his wife encourage them, it would
appear that the encouragement had his
sanction ; therefore his wife must not
encourage them: and if reasonable
means fail in teaching her this lesson,
others may be resorted to. A wife is
a wife, afler all.**

" 1 will never be a wife," said Hes-
ter.

" As you please," said her father ;
" but Annie is one, and must therefore
submit. She has the less ezciue for

resistance, in that she had her own
choice. No one was more sarprised
than myself when Sir Philip applied
to me for her hand."

Meantime the cause of all these
disagreements was altogether sopposi-
titious. Up to that time Annie had
no acquaintance with the firrt princi-
ples of reh'gion. Probably bat for tfaii
annoyance she would ever have re-
mained equaUy ignorant ; but, driven
from friendship, shot out from sympa-
thy, her attention was naturally fixed
on the subject ; she began to meditate
on Euphi^ie's practicesy to pot toge-
ther the ideas she had allowed toetcape
her. A copy of the Imitation of Christ
had accidentally been left behind b/
Euphrasie ; it was foond under the pil-
low on which she had slept It was
a book of mystery to Annie, wonder
fully enigmatical ; yet this book and
the New Testament were her ooa-
stant companions for months, and alie
learned to cherish them as friends.

CHATER xm.

EXFERIlfEKTB

or MOBS Kixna tbas

ONK.

*^ Papa," said Hester,«< didi notbetf
you say those pretty farms in YoA-
shire are about to change tenants?"

" You did, my dear."

** Have you any tenants in view for
them ?"

^* No ! Has any one applied to jos
for one, or all of them ?*'

^ I want to be the tenant myself."

"You?"

^ Yes, indeed ; there are good eoais
beneath the surface ; the disuktis weD
watered ; I want to try these new stcaif
engines on a large scale. I will set up
factories and form industrial associa-
tions, governing them myself. I will
establish them on the principle cf mo-
tual assistance in forming and promot-
ing a wide-spread intelligenoe: m;
factories shall contain scfaoms, reading-
rooms, museums, obsenratories» every-
thing that can assist the onwaurd fifh
gression of the noe."

I%$ CMfre^ Famh/; or, Qu^tUom of Ab Day.

498

1 will at least spend monej,

: more than if I kept race
OP Ascot, or frequented Crock-
rhich yoa could well afford to

10 if I were a man. Not more
night cost yoa if I insisted on
k house in town, and on becom-
belle of the 'season ; this would
ter extravagant nor wonderful ;
I wanted diamonds and emer-
l sapphires and glittering toys,
lid get them all for me, I know
old, for when did you reftise
ester anything, dear father ?"
ster, throwing her white arms
er Other's neck. " But now I
me of these babyish fancies, I
do good in my generation, and
er must help me. We do not
alf our income in our present
* living, and money is like ma-
VI know, it wants spreading,
f the glory of aiding ' progress.*
of reigning over a population
>ated from ignorance by your

Think of forming a nucleus

freedom and happiness shall

handing down your name as a

tor throughout all time ; it is a

well fitted to my father s noble

Grodfrey gazed on his darling,
. that he could refuse her noth-

11 he paused. " Supposing the
fy expenses incurred, my Hcs-
ir buildings erected, your vil-
»nned, you have forgotten one
jour schemes might be sud-
itemipted, when you least ex-
it: those farms are all entail-

foigot that," mused Hester.
iwhile she said: ^ Could not
rrangement be made with my

on this subject T*

> not know. Is he a likely one,

MI, to consent to the catting off

liir

might be," said Hester; "he
badly off now, though I suppose
tier helps him. Offer him a
ne allowance for life, from this
it^ on oooditioii that the entail

be cut off: he might be induced. to ac-
cept it."

** He would be a fool if he did," said
Mr. Godfrey.

" Nay, father, that is not so certain,
if you tfJce into consideration his pres-
ent position. He is likely to suffer
poverty for many years. I think I
would accept the alternative were I in
his place.**

Mr. Godfrey could deny nothing to
Hester, so he replied :

*'Well,IwiUthinkofit.-

But what had Eugene been doing
all this time ? Eugene, after his inter-
view with his sister, went straight to
M. Bertolot to inquire after his aunt
and Euphrasie. He was not mistaken
in supposing that he knew where they
were, but he would tell nothing more
than that they were in good health and
spirits. " I have no authority," he said,
**to divulge their place of abode; in
fact, I promised secrecy."

"But how do they live? They
have ho means 1** said Eugene.
" How, but by their labor!"
" Labor ! my aunt labor T*
" No, I was wrong in saying their
labor; it is Euphrasie who does the
work. Euphrasie gives lessons in
French, music, and drawing, and waits
on her mother. De Villeneuve has
hopes of recovering their estates for
them. He is now in France negotiat-
ing with the emperor to that effect.
He took care of them when they left
your sister's and procured Euphrasie
the situation she required, &s both she
and Madame refused to live at his ex-
pense.*'

" And did he offer to support them ?"
" Well, yes ; it appears that he and
Euphrasie's father were sworn broth-
ers in friendship, and do Villeneuve
made a solemn promise to the Comte
de Meglior to watch over Euphrasie*s
well-being. This promise keeps him
in Europe to this day, for he had al-
ways a misgiving that she would not
be permanently happy among those
not of her faith. We are expecting
de Villeneave very shortly.''

Tke Godfrey Family; mr, Q^tutimu o/ik$ Ik%

^ And if he suoceeds, my auot will
go back to France ?"

^ Probably ; bat I am not so san-
guine about their success as de Vil-
ieneave is. Madame is an English-
woman, and that will not help her
caase with the emperor just now.**

^And meantime Euphrasie works
for her daily bread ?*

<* She does, and is happy in doing so
Euphrasie, my friend, is a practical
Catholic; one whose delight it is to
reaUzej to make her own, the life led
by the holy family at Nazareth. I
venture to say she is far happier in
sweeping her mother^s room and in
cooking her mother's dinner than she
would be in a glittermg ball-room lit
up with its brilliant chandeliers.*'

^ And does she really descend to
these menial offices P' asked Eugene,
in a sort of stupefied amazement.

** Descend ! Is it to descend when
we aspire to imitate Jesus and Mary ?
You are a Catholic, my young friend.
You must not look at these things with
the eyes of the world : its false maxims
are not the ones which may guide your
ideas. Labor, actual manual labor,
was imposed on man in penalty for
sin; its acceptance is part of man's
atonement for that undervaluing of
grace which led to the commission of
that sin : which still leads to the com-
mission of daily sins. The avoidance
of labor is a child of pride, one which
has occasioned multitudinous disorders
among mankind. But Jesus accepted
labor — ^real, genuine labor : he worked
many years at his father's trade, and
Mary kept no servant in her house at
Nazareth; she labored, for she felt
that in lowly labor there is a sanctify-
ing influence, and it is this thought
that makes Euphrasie happy now."

^ But she is so unused to actual toil !*'
said Eugene.

^ Not so much as you nuy suppose,"
replied his friend. ^ The good nuns
taught her much that was useful, and
even when she was at Estcourt Hall
and Durimond Castle she did much
work that was unsuspected. The pro-
duce of her needle clothed the poor.

fed the hungry, and n
frayed the expense of a
accident brought her i
poor Catholics to whom
tions were acceptable i
All this was done so
suppose your family
about it"

**' At least I never he
Eugene.

Our hero was mudi
this interview, not men
could gain no clue to th
friends, but abo becao
yet too new to the pract
principles to acquiesce
the idea of the refined, e
plished daughter of a
man toiling for her da
performing all the meni
quired in the household

It was with right goc
greeted the Comte de '
his return, in the hope
of seeing something acc<
would alter these circun
the comle^s embassy ha
cessful ; all he had beei
was to leave the caf
other friends as shoult
at a more favorable
he was not so reserved
friends as M. Bertolot 1i
deemed that Eugene's ]
own family should ple^
for him from the ban of •
willingly mediated to ob
view for him with Madan
was not at home when h
Madame greeted him cor
she could not refrain
him for running counter
about religion.

^ Wliat a fuss about
opinion," she said. ^ Bi
France, before the
Protestant might have
acceptable to the aristo
say, too, that this new \
peror, patronizes the Cai
also, so I shall not ask
become a proselyte to Kn
her faith is that of her oc
her kindred, and m j hto

496

Okrut i$ Bom.

TntniUted from the Qerman of Hani Wadmhn

CHRIST IS BORN.

*< Really I take it unkindly of our
pastor that he is continually speaking
ill of us thorns, in the church yonder,"
said the thorn-bush, standing by a
crumbling stable wall among the cas-
tle-ruins near the village church. " It
is very unfair in him. How can he
know, for instance, how the subject
may affect me ? On the bloody field
of Golgotha, nearly two thousand
years ago, there stood my ancestor, a
buckthorn, of whose branches they
wove our Saviour's crown. But the
pastor yonder little thinks that I come
of that same buckthorn ;* or that all
its lineal descendants bear red blos-
soms and weep tears of blood on
Christmas night ; or that we thorns
are ever renewed like CliristV teach-
ings, being woven in with them ?"

So spake the thoni-bush ; and the
wind blew through its branches, and
shook tliem until tlie snow dropped
off.

"Positively, tins connection ought
to be known !" sighed the thorn-bush.

But it was just then Christmas eve,
and midnight was drawing near.
Therefore did the thorn-bush make
these pious reflections, which should
have been cherished on other days
too, if the lineage were really so won-
derful as it fancied. Meantime the
church-bells were ringing for the mid-
niglit mass, and tlie good priest pass-
ed by, going to the service of Grod.

" See, now, how indifferently he goes
past me," said the thorn-bush. " And
no wonder, since he knows nothing of
my connections ! And all the re^t
brush by me into the church ; and if
the Lord God could not see the things
that are hidden, yet would he know his
faithful by the footprints that lead from

* Kr«aadora— CroM-tiioni, lUcnllj.

the houses to tho church. Bot he
knows them all, for he guides thdr
steps. I know, though, two in the
village who have not been to cfaarch
to-day nor yet this whole year, for
they are right godless men: the
gloomy lord of our castle, and Wild
Stephen, whom he tamed out of hii
cottage yesterday because the reot
was not paid* Here lie the poor wife
and her half-naked children now io
this ruined stable before which I suuid
guard. lieally L must take a peep
and see how the poor woman and her
sick child are getting on,^ said the
thorn-bush, and stretched up its bought
to look in at the broken window.

But it was dark within, and the
night- wind moaned through the daup
walls and the open window. **0
God ! the creature is so good and so
wretched. Here in this stable are
tears and chattering teeth on this dij
of Christmas giAs. Now, that is too
grievous," sighed the thorn-bush.

And over the way the church-organ |
poured out its solemn tones. ^ Christ
is bom," sang the people from the
choir and benches. ^ Christ is bom,*' |
cried the watchman from the towpr.
And our thorn-bush was right In
that old, deserted stable a poor woman
knelt and prayed. Hot tears ran
down her cheeks, her hands were «»•
vulsively clasped, and her eyes rested
fixedly on the straw in the old stone
manger ; for in that manger lay her
youngest bora, a half-year old child,
sick, and trembling with ague and
cold. The moon shcme through the
window-opening upon this groap-
Her rays fell sympathisingly on the
sick child, but they could ^ warm
him ; nor could the mother's^reast do
it either, she was henelf so icy ooli

Chri$t is Bom.

go in-doors for fear their father may
beat them hecause they have come
home em[>ty-ljande<L Take them with
thee. I cannot v^arm them ; I am so
poor and naked.**

We know not whether it was the
pastoi^s heat! or the tborn-bueh that
spoke ; but he took the children home
with him.

" 8i>t now have I one care the less !"
fiaid the llioni-bu^li to itself. **Now
they are begin nmg to light iip the
Christmas tree there — and there — and
again over yonder. What a pity that
Fm not btationed under the windo\vs«
for here in ih\s dreary stable there will
, bo nothing to see."

But tlie thom-bush was wrong, for
ju8t tlien the intej"ior of the stable jrrew
bright with a piercing light. StiLl knelt
the poor woman with closed eyes, but
the sick child waked up and stretched
out its iiule arms laughing ; for the
roof opened, and down fluttered, sur-
roimded by a light cloud, two lovely
angels^ one of them bearing a little
IChin^tmas tree gleaming with cxjunt-
|Ies» lights, the other bringing costly
fifts. And it grew warm in the stable,
'and the light threw such a gleam into
the gtrecl that the thorn-budh wonder-
ed within itself

** There is no hut so poor but Chnat
is there to-night/' it said.

The angels fluttered down, and while
Lone offei'ed the Christmas tree, the
'other went to the sick child and laid
his hand healingly upon its breast*
Then they Hew upwaixi again and
vanished ; but the light remained in
the stable. In the mean time Wild
Stephen lay upon the cold altar-steps.
At last his consciousness returned, and
he raised liis head from the stone. A
wondertui vision had appeared to him
in a drciim, for he had seen two beauti-
ful spirits who, blessing him* walked by
his side : and now* on awaking, he saw
them standing by him, and felt each
angel lay a little warm hand in hii
and lead him from the church.

It seemed to Stephen as if he still
dreamed ; as if it were in sleep that
the two Uttie augek led bun fixmi the

church to tlie stable wH<»re 1
poor wife and sorroi^ I
\Vlllingly be let blh a

bot when they reached ibcij
dwelling, and everything wii
ed fio warm Aod bright And [
when he saw the CbristiOftaj
he rubbed his eyes, and lookea
the angels who had brought 1
and were still standing bTj
Then Stefdien recogriixed IJ
der boys, grandly and beauiirii
ed as he liad never aeen 1
fore. J

Slill it seemed like a viaf
raised both children in his ^
held them close and kissed ll
It could not be a dream. *

•* Christ is born,*^ c? ;

from the tower* •* A i

within my own soul uxm I" q|
Stephen, and, still holding the
dren, spnmg to his wife. lie ^
towaixl him and held her to h|
** Jenny/* he said, ** wake tipi
indeed bom !**

And she lifted her eyes aii
around inamaxement^sayingi
has happeued ? Is it really d
phen ?— tiud all this light hen
dream true ? I suw two ail|
ing a ChrtBtmas ti^ee aod
presentj^, and one of them we
manger and laid his haisd I
upon my baby*s bn*fl«*t, Yf
is true, for he is <

taking thesmthi
ger and daapini; it t* i

is true, Stephen/' she i

baby in his arms. *' Our b4tf
bom, and be will not let my chl

And while they were all la
the Christmas presents th^
stepped frotn behind the tre|

it Wiis who had sent t^ '■*'" i

two good children of i

was who had seen Wna ^u^i*^
down upon the altAr-stepss b^
who had dressed the little
beautifully, and led them to
Uier in the church*

»* Christ is horn.** said tlM
**and it is h: it ei

est dwelling ,. rt be nil

I%e Dying Tear.

499

to-daj ; bat where he lodges for the
first time, Stephen, is in your heart ;
dierish him tenderly, for you know
that there is more joy in heaven over
one sinner that repenteth than over
iimety-nine jnst persons.'*

And all this time the thorn-bosh
was looking in at the window, its
braDches rustled with joy, and, like
the cross-thorn on Christmas night, its
boughs pat forth violet-red eyes, and
wept tears of blood upon the snow.

The next morning Stephen went to
chuch with his wife and children. In
the meantime something must have
passed between them and the pastor,

producing a change in material as well
as spiritual matters; for they were
seen clad in modest and suitable at-
tire, going to the Lord's table with
deepest devotion. The villagers pass-
ed by the thorn-bush in their holi-
day dress, and when they saw the
snow underneath it bedewed as if with
ruddy pearls, they cried : " See, now,
the buckthorn has borne red blossoms
during the night !"

"Yes," answered the cross-thorn,
" for Christ is bom indeed. These
thorns know it, for we crowned him
in death ; and you men should know
it also, for he was crucified for you.*"

From Chambers*! Joamal.

THE DYING YEAR.

Scant leaves upon the aspen

Shake golden in the sun ;
Old Year, thy sins are many.

Thy sand is almost run.
The beech-tree, brazen-orange,

Bums like a sunset down ;
Old Year, thy grave is ready ;

Doff sceptre, robe, and crown.

The elm, a yellow mountain,

Is shedding leaf by leaf;
The rains, in gusts of passion.

Pour forth their quenchless grief;
The winds, like banshees mouming.

Wail in the struggling wood ;
Old Year, put off thy splendor.

And don thy funeral hood.

Lay down thy golden glories ;

The bare boughs bar the sky —
Skeletons wild and waming.

Quaking to see thee die.
Thou hast lived thy life, remember ;

Now lay thee down and rest ;
The grass shall grow above thy head,

And the flower above thy breast.

500

ne Bofy Land.

From The Dabkn Unlreriltj Migailne.

THE HOLY LAND.

There caa be no doubt that the
Mount Morioh where Abraham
would have sacrificed his son is the
same spot as the Moriah upon which
Solomon built the temple. ^ Then
Solomon began to build the house of
the Lord at Jerusalem in Mount
Moriah" (2 Chron. iii. 1).* It is also
probable that it is the same place as
the Salem mentioned in Grenesis xiv.
18, of which Mclchisedek was king ;
for in Psalm Ixxvi. 2 we read, **In
Salem also is his tabernacle, and his
dwelling-place in Sion." Joscphus
calls Melchisedek King of Soljrma, a
name afterward altered to Hicroso-
Ijma. But the first mention of the
name Jerusalem occurs in Joshua x. 1,
where Adoni-zcdec is spukon of as
" King of Jerusalem." There are to
be gathered from sacred and secular
annals the records of twenty-one in-
vasions of this ancient city by hostile
armies. The first attack was made
upon her by the children of Judah,
shortly after the death of Joshua.
They fought against Jerusalem, took
it, put it to tlie fire and sword
(Judges i. 1-8) ; but they were unable
to expel the Jebusitcs. nor were the
children of Benjamin any more suc-
cessful, but they both dwelt with the
Jebusites in the city ; the Jebusites
being probably driven from the lo^v•er
part to Mount Sion, where they re-
mained until the time of David, who
marched against Jerusalem, drove
them from Mount Sion, and called it
the City of David.

The Ark of the Covenant was con-
veyed there, an altar built, and Jeru-
salem became the imperial residence,
the centre of the political and re-
ligious history of the Israelites. Its

^ Alw cnnflrmsil by JoMphas, Antiq L 18-S.

glory was enhanced by the labors of
Solomon, but under his son Rehcboan
ten tribes revolted, so that Jem&slem
became only the capital of Jndab,
with whom the tribe of Benjamin
alone remained faithftiL During the
reign of this king, Shishak, the Egyp-
tian monarch, invaded the holy citr
and ransacked the temple. Then
fcbout a hundred years rolled by, wbeu
Amaziah was king of Judah. and
Joash of Israel; &e latter marcbeJ
against Jerusalem, threw down ibe
wall, and the temple was once more
rified of its treasures. In the next
centur}" Manasseh the king was taken
captive by the Assyrians to Babjlon.
but ultimately restored. In consi^-
quence of the strange intermeddling
of Josiah, a few years later, whp:i
Pharao-necho, king of Egypt, was o.i
his march, he was killed in iMittle, and
the latter directed his army toward
Jerusalem, and placed Eliaklm on the
throne by the name of Jehoiakio*
The advance of this Egyptian king is
confirmed by Herodotus.* Agtins^
Jehoiakim, however, came Nebuchad-
nezzar, who ravaged the city more
than once, and after a siege of two
years, in the reign of Zedekiah, bom-
ed it down, took all the sacred vessels
to Babylon with the two remaioioK
tribes (the other ten were alreadr in
captivity) ; and now that the temple
was destroyed, the city in nilns,aDd

• Herodotoi, Euterpe, 139. He aL. ^

▼Ictorj- gained by lilm at MagdoU, U»e& ttjn thal>(
took the cltjof CadjrtU KOt Xv^otot W€^ Nc^

fiaxny Ka<H;rtv voXiv t^ Sv^ifT hi^
fieyaXnv hXr. Thb dtr Ou^Jtit b MmnOj t^
cepteil at Jenualem, which waa called **hMj.
*' SaJtto(U9k.'' Tha shekel waa aarkad ** J«r^
lein Kedusha,^ a Syrlac oorroptleo of tto V^
" Kodeth." Then the word Jennalam wm a«W*
and " Ktdutha'' only need, whki^ bdi« MMkirf
into Oreek, became ^*K.adyTi^^ ai tmui If Itf"^
ocoa.

lis Holy Land.

501

>ple all in bondage, it appeared
:he prediction of her prophets
^eady been accomplished. But

of rejoicing was yet to come,
lough tlie chosen people did
under Babylonish tyranny, and
ng their harps on the willows,
was still a prophet of hope

them in the person of DanieL
as the time alluded to in that
ul psalm composed after their
in allusion to an occasion when
persecutors had asked them
gly to sing one of their national
for their amusement, the He-
Fords of which, if we may be
1 the expression, glitter with

rlren of Babylon there we sat down,

rept when we remembered Zion.

id car harps upon the willows in the midst

of.

, thej that carried us away captive required

aconff ;

tliat wasted as required of us mirth,

ing us one of the songs of Zion.

all we sing the Lord's song

n a strange land ?

f I forget thee, O Jerusalem,

<et my right hand forget her cunning ;

f I do not remember thee,

•ogne cleave to the roof of mv mouth,

r not Jerusalem above my chief Joy."

le time of Cyrus their deliver-

ime ; they were released from

ty, and there was a mighty

up" to Jerusalem when the

was rebuilt and the sacred

which Nebuchadnezzar had

Lway were restored ; money, too,

v^en them, and the works, after

interrupted for a time by diffi-

were resumed under Darius

pes and completed. Some time

ird another large body of Jews

ip to the holy city with Ezra,

e capital was once more active

isj life and once more became

cander the Great marched
; the Jews, but was prevented
ntering the city by the interces-
the high priest — a scene which
Its parallel in after-times, when
ed Leo went to the camp of
and by his entreaties diverted
emi-Christian barbarian from
After the death of Alexander,
ijf king of Egypt, sorprised the

Jews on their Sabbath day, when he
knew they would not fight ; he made
an easy conquest, and carried off thou-
sands of Jews into Egypt

For a hundred years of comparative
peace this fated city remained under
the Ptolemies, when it fell into the
hands of the Syrians. Antiochus
Epiphanes, their lung, afler his Egyp-
tian campaigns, finding his treasure-
chest nearly empty, bethought him
of sacking the temple of Jerusalem,
marched his army upon the city, pil-
laged it, slew about forty thousaind
people, and sold as many more into
slaveiy. He then endeavored to exter-
minate the ceremonial ; a pagan altar
was set up and sacrifice made to Jupi-
ter. The Maccabsean revolution broke
out, and the city was ultimately re-
covered by the hero, Judas IM^u^ca-
baBus, when a new phase of priesthood
was established, which we sliall notice
elsewhere. Things went on thus until
about the year 60 b.c., when Pompey
seized the city and massacred twelve
thousand Jews in the temple courts.
Thus it fell into the hands of the Ro-
mans, against whom it rebelled, and
by whom ultimately, after the most
terrible siege recorded in history, it
was taken and subjected to violations
over which the mind even now shud-
ders ; its temple was ransacked, vio-
lated, and burned, its priests butchered,
pagan rites were celebrated in its holy
place, its maidens were ravished, its
palaces burned down, an unrestrained
carnage was carried on, Jews were
crucified on crosses as long as trees
could be found to make them, and
when the woods were exhausted they
were slain in cold blood. Nearly a
million of Jews are said to have fiUlen
in this terrible conflict For fifty years
after there is no mention of Jerusalem
in history. They kept themselves
quiet, watching eagerly and stealthily
for an opportunitv of throwing off the
hated Roman yoke. About the yeai
131 A-D., Adrian, to prevent any oat-
break, ordered ihe city to be forti-
fied. The Jews rebelled at onoe, bat
were so oompletelj cmahed bj the

year 135 that this date has always
been accepted as that of their fiiuit
flippers ion. Tbe holy city \vi\s tlien
made a lioman colony, the Jewa were
rorhklden to enter into Us walh under
pain of immeihate death, the very
name was altered to the pagan one
of JElia Capifolina, a temple was
erected on Mount Mori ah to Jupiter
Capitolinns, and Jerusalem was hence-
tbrth spoken of by this pagan name
until the days of Constantine, when
pilgrimages were rife, and the Chru?t-
ians began to turn their »tep9 toward
the city whose streets had been hal-
lowed by the footsteps of Christ.
Helena, the em[*eror*s mother, wan-
dered ihei^ in penitenee, built a cbureh
on the site of the nativity, and agitated
Hiris^tendom to ils foundations by the
unnouncement of the discovery of the
true cross. Constiinllne then built a
church on the site of the Holy Sepul-
chns and at last the Jews were admit-
ted once a year into the city of their
glory to sing penitential psahns over
their degi-atliition. The sorrows of the
pliice were not yet ended, for in the
year 614 the Persians Itdl upon Jem*
flalem»and this time the Christians suf-
fered, ninety thousand of whom were
killed. Then it was retaken by the
Romans, when the Eni|:>eror Heraclius
marched in triumph through its streets
witli the real cross on his shoulders*
In Gr"J7, however, it fell into the hands
of Arabic Samcens, from whom the
Turks took it in 1079. Then came
that marvellous agitation of Eum|>c,
when she poured out her millions of
devotees to drive the Sanieen from the
holy land ; and in 1099 (Godfrey de
Bouillon %va8 proclaimed King of Je-
rusalem by the victorious Crusaders.
The Christians held it for eighty-eight
years, when Saladin, the sultan of
Egypt, wrested it from them in 1187,
and they held it until the year 1517»
when the Ottoman Turks seizing upon
Jerusalem, made the twenty-first and
last invasion which tliis devoted city
has undergone, and in their hands tt
Still remains.
In the very earliest iigea of Christ*

ianity people bcfui to Imml iMr
8te]>s towartl Jemgalem and lo wHii
their travels. Some of tfao^e narm^
tions are extant, and the caHii^t w cadl-
etl ^ Itinera Hum a Burrligala Hiem-
salem usfjue:** it was irritt»ni by a
Christian of Bordeaux, whi> weni la
iho Holy Land tn the year 93&
about two years beftire the diurdi of
tlie Holy Sepulchre was cou^ecnitfKl bf
Constantine and his motJier Helena.
It is to be gleaned alto from the
works of the (Jtreek £fttliera that |iik
grimages to Jerusalem were faisfOiBiaf
so fre<[uent as to lead to many aluti.
St. Poqdivry, after living as a tedoK
in £gypt, went to the Holy Laad.?iiil-
ed Jerusalem, and finally eetdeil la te
country as Bishop of Gaza. T
the end of tlie fourtli e^'ntury
Sl Kusebius of Ci^emona and St. J^>
rome went there and founded a mnni»'
tery at Bethlehem* St, Pajjl
visited it about the same time.
seventh century we have St A
going there and telling ua a
the )x?auty of the Jewish wcwnr
lived at Naxareth. In •'"• v*-
the taking of Jertisah
ecus inierrupled the li.^.. <.. *i-.i ■ -.
but Areulf, a French bisbop, went
there U>ward the end of the cf^* ~
In the early part of the eighth r
the Anglo Saxons began t
Willibald, a relative of l^<^
a vi^it to Jenisalem in 721.
the war with the Greeks int*^»
and we do not hear t;
Holy Land until the f
century, when, thr
of Chuirlem;igne w
chid, the Christtians were on
lowed to go to the Holy S«*}
monk, called Bernard Sa,

in 870, iiiid wrote an aCio, ^, ,.,

Then the celebrated Gerbert^ who «rai
aflerwani pope, under the title of
Sylvester 11., weut to JeraialBai io
98(i. came back and wrote a wofk in
which be made Uie holy eily
her misfortunes and woea, lier ^
temples and violated aacred iibciil
tlten he appealed to the wbole Qiiiit
ian world Co go awl helfi Ii«r« Fimei

lie Hay Land.

503

taly began to move. The Sara-
heard of this ag^itation, and
licted the Christians in their
lions from worshipping, turned
temples into stables, and threw
the church of the Holy Sepul-
and others in the year 1008.
he tidings of this devastation
>e was aroused, and in fact we
airly say that Gerbert's book of
was the first spark that fired
onflagration of the Crusades,
irst narrative we have of any
n who followed the Crusades
SsBwulf, a Saxon, and a very in-
ing narration he has left; he
in the year 1102, was a monk
Imesbury Monastery, and is men-
by the renowned William of
tbbey in his Gresta Pontificum.
I are accounts also in the twelfth
7 by Benjamin of Tudela; in
•urteenth by Sir John Mande-
in the fifteenth by Bertrandon
Brocquiere;* and in the six-
by Henry MaundrelL*
dem times have 'multiplied
on the Holy Land, but those
jned above are nearly all that
ctant of early periods. In our
ay there is a tendency to revive
bject ; we have had many books
good, bad, and indifferent, upon
oly Land — Wanderings in Bible
I and Scenes, Horeb and Jerusa-
linai and Palestine, Giant Cities
ishan, Jerusalem as It Js, and
others, of which we cannot stop
' more than that they are gen-
interesting and readable. It
take a wretched writer, indeed,
ke a dull book upon the Holy
; the subject itself and the scenes
the attention at once. But the
dlgrim who has returned from
ft^ed dty and emptied his wal-
' our inspection has produced a
lot only valuable as an interest-
count of travel, but useful as an
eot commentary upon the in-
I of the Bible and the life and

Sufy TraT«U in Palestine, aa IntareiUng
B or Itinenriea and anolenl tUu to the
ad, larMr. Xhonaa Wright.

work of our Lord. There have been
many reviews of this book as a book
of travel, but it is in this higher light
more particularly that we wish to
examine Mr. Hepworth Dixon's two
volumes on the Holy Land. From
the very earliest times down to the
present, Jaffa or Joppa seems to be
the portal of Palestine to western
travellers, who are, it appears, com-
pelled to make their debut in Palestine
in no very dignified manner. The
water-gate of Jaffa, Mr. Dixon tells
us, faces the sea, and is ^no more
than a slit or window in the wall
about six feet square." Through this
narrow opening all importations from
the west must be hoisted from the
canoes ; *< such articles as pashas, bit-
ter beer, cotton clodi, negroes, anti-
quaries, dervishes, spurious coins and
stones, monks, Muscovite bells, French
clocks, English damsels and their hoops,
Circassian slaves, converted Jews, and
Bashi Bazouks." Once safe through
this slit in the wall, the stranger is
ushered into a town whose scenes re-
call to his imagination the Arabian
Nights of his childhood, so little has
the Holy Land changed ; the dress of
the people and their customs being so
little altered that Haroun, if he were
allowed to take another midnight trip
with his vizier, would be quite at home.
Marvellous it is, too, that civih'zation
has left another peculiarity untouched
in Palestine. Mr. Dixon tells us that
after " three montlis of Syrian travel
you will learn to treat a skeleton in
the road with as much indifference as
a gentleman in a turban and a lady in
a veiL" Whatever dies in the plain
lies there — asses, camels, or men.
The travelling baggage of an Arab
includes a winding-sheet, in which he
may be rolled by his companion, if he
has one, and covered with sand ; bodies
are found, too, who, in the last gasp,
had striven to cover their faces with
the loose sand. There is no exaggera-
tion in this statement — the Saxon Sse-
wulf, who went there in the year
1102, nearly eight centuries ago^
draws the same picture. Ha says :

*'Wcnt from Joppi to Jerusalem, two
dAys^ journey^ by a roounuiaous road^rerj
rough and dangerous on account of the
SaruceoSf who ll<» io wait for the Ctirtei'uuis
lo rob and spoil them. Numbew of human
bodies lie by the wayside, torn to pieces by
wild boasiji, many of whom have been cut
off by Saracens ; some, too, have perish cmI
from heut, and thirst for wiint of water^ and
others from too much drinking."

Travelling in the Holy Land is not
mei*e 6port; there are a myrlai] of
dangers to be avoided and watched
for, armed Bedaween are prowling
about, baada of horsemen scour across
the plain like cloudci over the sky.

** Horsemen !^* cdes Takonb, relniog in.
*' Huaiiiog the still ni^ht^ and with hands
on our revolvers, bending forward toward
the dim fieldu on our left bind, we can he-ar
the footfall of horses crushirg their way
through stubble and stones. ]n a moment^
while they sounded afar off, they are among
us ; fine dark figiircs, on brisk little mares,
and poising above tbem their bamboo f piars.
A word or two of parley, in which lahroael
bus hU share, and we are asking each other
for the news. , , , , Perhaps they con*
Bidcr us too strong to bo robbed, for a Beda-
ween rarely thinks it right to attack under
an advantage of five to one/'

At dawn of day they arrive at tlio
spot where once stood MiDdini the
birth place of the Maccabeei*, now a
den of robbers, called Latnin. Thi.s
Bpot 18 ti most interesting one, and Mr.
DLxon rapidly sketches the results of
the events wJiich were transacted here,
showing how from the Maecabiean re-
volt sprang tlie Greut Separation, a
new kind of priesthood, and also, for
which the influence of the caplivily
had aln^ady prepatx^d them, the ignor-
in^jj of the written law of Moses, and
the in tix>d action and \ en e rat ion of the
oral law or tradition of the elders*
The peeuliar aspects of ihc Jews at
the time of the Roman domination
and the advent of Christ, their hopes
and opinions, may be traced back to
the dmma which was played out on
this «pot. We propose, then, to pause
for a moment to sketch the history of
that period, as it is the keystone to
the whole fabric of Jewish degenei^
a«y.

About lialf a ceutary before the

."?

birth of Cbridt the Jews bad faUoa
into the bai^ds of the Eomana, and ki
the writings of TacittiB we have a di^
script ion of them, an attempt at b*
vestigution into their hidiory, and a
version of Roman opiaion upon tbem,
which IS the more interesting aji it ^
fords an admirable corrobcifmliQn
what 13 recorded in the S<^rtor
Tacitus endeavors very !y

to tuake them come orii: ^m

Crete, on account of their m

or Juda^os, from Mount la**. *.* ^ x^u.
We must bear in mind Uiat it ia searas
ly probable that Tacitua coitlJ liats
read Genesis. Then be laailMiai
other theories which were In vogw
as to the origin of this scrange paK
pie, who were beginning to be ~
tixiublesome to the Romaaa* la
first theory we get a sligkt tnce
the ^aered tradition; certain peo^
be say,^, declare that a great multilaidr
in tlie reign of Isis overflowed Bgjp
and diseharg^d themaelvea into tir
lands of Judea and the surroondiNir
neighborhoocL, some call tbem a twr
of ^ihiops, others As^yriaoi; md
we are told there were eomo ctoi
who churned for tbem a far sttnt
renowned descent from the ^^oAi'fidi
mentioned by Homer, wbenoc tliff
called their great city liieio-Soiyaia
Tliese tlieories are veiy jngeoiaoa, iMI
they only servo lo prove tbat tbe mt
of the philosophical lu5t(jran of tae
Romans had never rt^ted on tht
Jewish records. Still tlie cJbmmim
he gives of them is the one ih^j bsM
universally borne in tb« woHd i ht
speaks abo of ** Ma3r8ea«'* nba nam
them a distinct legislatiaii ; be oitfi-
tions " circumcision '* and tbeir abllt
nence frx>m certain kinda of mraf i kt
records their national exdaalreMfl^
tbeir immovable obatiniicjt tlfeflir >^
tion of one God, so bUsqm lo a
mind, and the tr^nph* mUkmti '
equally absurd.

Though the Romana trealed tip
Jews^ as indeed tlicy did all tbe pia^
pie they conquered, wilb gr«al ht'
bearance^ still tliey bad a fort d
secret dlsUke for tbciii» awl ift tbi

I%e Holy Land,

505

ed them as thej served
\ of people subject to

And this feeling was
iy the Jews, who now
jr longed for the advent
deliverer, whom they also
?r felt must come in the
rarrior, with power and
recp these Romans out
r, and restore Jerusalem
T position of splendor

There can be no ques-

political circumstances
Fews were placed at the
foming of Christ helped
for his reception, by fos-
lea of a great temporal
ich had been implanted
IS. But this idea was of
rigin than their troubles
ans. It is an interesting

Maccabsean revolution,
Bd the priesthood, may
[>on as the event which
le Jews that fatal error,
time they had a more
*eption of the Messiah,
ts which followed in the
heroism of Judas Mac-
red the whole character
«. Let us review those
J, for it is only by doing
roperly understand how
le to be so persistent in
tions of a great omnipo-
1 sovereign. Antiochus
upon the death of his
acus Philopator, king of

upon the vacant throne,
netrius, the son of Seleu-
3 at Rome, where he had

a hostage. In Daniel
can that he obtained the

flattery, which receives
t from what Livy says
travagant rewards (Livy
He had undertaken sev-
l^ns against Egypt, and
etom from one of these,
I army and exhausted
len it occurred to him
ODuld only plunder the
le Jews, it would go far
lis finances. He turned

his army at once toward Jerusalom,
marched upon it, and sacked it An
altar was raised and sacrifice made to
Jupiter in the holy place. Then he
endeavored to abolish the ceremo-
nial, and to introduce pagan worship,
when the Jews, exasperated beyond
endurance, were ripe all over the
country for revolt, but dared not rise.
At this time, however, there dwelt in
a little village called Modin, not far
from Emmaus, a family who were call-
ed the Maccabees, for what reason it is
now impossible to ascertain ; but this
family, who had lived there in the
peaceable obscurity of village life,
were destined to become heroic. It
consisted of an aged father, Mattathias,
and five sons. Antiochus Epiphanes
had sent his officers to this village to
erect an altar in the Jewish pla^ of
worship for sacrifice to the gods, when
Mattathias boldly declared that he
would resist it. The altar was set up,
and one miserable renegade Jew was
advancing toward it to make the pa-
gan offering, when he was slain on the
spot by Mattathias. The family then
fied to the wilderness, and concealed
themselves ; they were soon joined by
others; a band was formed, which
gradually increased, until it became
numerous enough to attack towns.
Then Mattathias died, and his son,
even more memorable in the history
of patriotism, came forward, and
took the command of the gathering
confederation, now a disciplined army.
ApoUonius was sent against him,
whom Judas met boldly on the field
of battle, and slew. The same suc-
cess attended him in his encounter
with the Syrian general, Seron. An-
tiochus now saw the necessity of vig^
orous measures to prevent die Jews
from recovering their independence;
he went to Persia to recruit his treas-
ures, while Lysias, the regent, sent
an army to Judea of 40,000 foot and
7,000 cavalry, which was reinforced
by auxiliaries firom the provinces, and
even by Jews who were already be-
coming jealous of the fame of Judas.
The Jewish hero pointed cyat to his

506

P^Jioiif Land.

followers the desperate odds against
which they would have to contend*
and resolved npon employin*^ a strata-
pern. By a forced march he reached
a portion of the enemy encamped at
EmmuuA^ and gurprised them, wnth
complete success : several portions of
U»e army were put to flight, and a
great booty secured. Another wad
more nuroerouii; aiiny was sent against
him, hut with no success. At the
head of 10,000 followers* tired by fa-
imticism, Judas put to Jlight the army
of Lysias, uO,UOO strong, and marched
on Jerusalem to purify the temple and
restore it to its glory. The fifslival
of Purification waa then in itugu rated.
Day by day the fiueeesses of Judas in-
creased, when Antioehue* En pal or, who
Imd succeeded Antiochus Kpiphanes,
invaded Judea, and only made peace
yvitU Judas in consequence of di^sen-
[ eiona at home. He was murdered by
hi^ uncle. Demetrius, who seized the
I kingdom and confirmed the peace with
Jud?i5, but took posf^essiou of the cita-
d*d of Jerusalem, placing liia general,
l^icanor, there with troops, 8u:*picion3
[were then entertained that treachery
fwaa beuig plotted Ix^tween Judas and
libis general ; tlie mailer was pressed,
vhen Nicanor cleared himself, atjd
[Judas was obliged to tlee. A battle
ok place, which he woti, and another
[victory followed at Belh-huron, an
I which Nicanor felh lie-enforcements
^ Stnaigthened the enemy, and Judiw
W9i compelled to retire to Laish with
,^^000 followers, where bo was attack*
[edata disadvantage. Only 800 of
his men remained faithful to him, but
with thefie he boldly encountered the
avenging hc*3tB of Demetrius, and
found a hero's death on the field*
Though Judai was dead, yet the Mac-
cabxan spirit was not extinct. Simon
and Jonatlian, his brothers, ralQed
their companions, and took the lead,
fortifying themselves in a strong posi-
tion in the neighborhood of Tekon,
Jonathan bid fair to equal Judas ; he
avoided an open engagement with the
Syrians, but kept his p08ittoii» and
haraaacd the enemy for tbo 8pAoo of

two years, when evcnta bttn^t i

what periiaps the slc-niler fbm (

army would have uevcraeDoi

A pretender to tlic throoe of

sprang up to tlie ponon of ^

Babs, the reputed natttrml ton of]

tiochus Epiphanes, and a |xuly

soon found to promote hu clmlm i

Demetnus* By this ttmc Jo

little body of troops had bf

men ted by continued

and his (X)sition w»s sucll

contending parties in Syria k 1

clear that if either could win ora

obstinate Jew to his cause it wo'ikl i

cide the matter. Demetrius took tbc

first step, by making him at nnct? gfi»»

eral of the forces in Judea and gtop^m*

or of Jerusalem; bat Jcmatiiaa vii

in no hurry, he suspected the wily

Demetrius, and having revTcivcil prtf*

tures from Alexander Bulas^ thai if fct

would espouse his cause he wvieM

make htm high priest mhvn he wa*ai

tlie throne of Syria, be yielded. Tkm

overtures were aceompaiiieil bf ikl

present of a purple it>be» and JooiSbii^

who, doubtless, saw la tlie ditaeniitti

of his enemies the opportiniity te|

Jerusalem, accepted Ibc pp

jomed Alexander, who ^tew 7

in battle, and ascended the thitniei

ria. True to his engagv^ment* ba 1 _

Jonathan high priest^ witli ibe raak tM

[)rii)ce. and ditl all he coukl to

his fidelity. Jooatlmn at^erwanl

tended the mj^riage of AJi

with a daughter of the ICiif «if H^fjfk

at PtolematSp where be reorireti auaf

marks of eonsideratioii ftom the Brma

and Egyptian mooarebs. lle'ity»

mately fell, however, a Tictiia ii

treachery, and waa

brother Simon, wbo

Jews in their indcpendeooe bi

for which, in iSl ». c*, iktff ^

a decree, hy which the digDaly of ^i^k

priest and prtnee of the Jewf WM

made hereditary in tbe fiuailj of S>

mon. Thus waa fomided Ao

line of Asroooean piiQiti« wbidl

mained unbroken down to abcnl

tyfoQT years bisfora Cbfiil.

Mosaic priQcfple wai set aMil%

I%e Moly Land.

507

113 time the changes came over
ITS and their institutions which
nirablj sketched by Mr. Dixon
two chapters on the Great Sep-
and the Oral Law, which we
aend to the careful perusal of
le who wishes to form a clear
the origin of the state of Juda-
the time of our Lord. He thus
ip in a sentence the results of
xx»b»an insurrection :

main issoes, then, as regards the faith
ej in Israel of that glorious revolt of
ras the elevation of a fighting sect to
the general adoption of separative
m; the substitution of an explana-
for the Covenant ; a change in the
looession of high priests, and a law-
in of the spiritual and secular forces."

Idjls of Bethlehem form a
iteresting chapter : the death of
9 the idjl of Ruth, the episode
I, the house of Chimham, the
Jeremiah, and the birth of our
r, are all sketched in a manner
tends to impress these well-
scenes upon the mind indelibly.
pter on Syrian Khans, which

much light upon the incident
birth of Christ, we would like
Hd did not the exigencies of
brbid. The reader will find in
ipters, The Inn of Bethlehem,
Efrovmce of Graiilee, Herod
feat, John the Baptist, and

Parties, an admirable intro-

to those scenes of the life and
ings of our blessed Lord which
tained in the second part of the
od to which we wish to devote
lainder of this paper.
n speaking of the early life of
Ifr. Dixon takes up the ques-
tbe obscurity of his origin, that
i point with the sceptics of all
om the ^Is not this the car-
I 80D ?^ of the Jews, down to
nle objections of the Grerman
u He has shown tl^tt it was
tan to teach the youth of all
■ome useful art ; and the best
d greatest men in Jewish his-
i beeo inBtructed in such trades
ring, teot-nuikingy etc. BesideBy

certain trades were held in honor. We
cannot understand this if we think of
carpentering by the contemptuous es-
timate of modern life. That contempt
for hand-labor was unknown in the
early ages of Scripture history. Adam
dressed the garden, Abel was a keep-
er of sheep, Cain a tiller of the ground.
Tubal Cain a smith ; and so, among
the Jews, it was a reproach to any
man if he had not been taught one of
the useful mechanical arts. It was
dignified by the Almighty himself,
who, we are told —

** Called by name Bezaleel, . . . and
he hath filled him with the spirit of God
in wisdom, in understanding, and in know-
ledge, and in all manner of workmanship, and
to aevise curious works, to work in gold and
in silver and in brass, and in the cutting of
stones to set them, and in earring of wood
to make any manner of cunning work. And
he hath put it in his heart that he may
teach." Exod. xxxv. 80-34.

This reverence was cherished by
the Jews; carpentering was always
looked upon as a noble occupation ;
the fact that the carpenter might have
to go into the temple to labor would
have rescued that ocxsupation from
contempt This is a striking peculi-
arity of eastern life; and elsewhere
the objection of the sceptic to the
humble origin of Jesus has been well
answered :

*'The princes of Turkey in Egypt are
still instructed in the mechanical arts, one
being made a brazier, another a carpenter,
a third a good weaver, and so on. Said
Pasha was a good mechanic, Ishmael Pasha
is not inferior to his brother. Much of the
domestic life of Israel has been lost to us,
but still we know something of the crafts in
which many of the most £unoufl rabbis and
doctors had been taught to excel We know
that Hillel practised a trade. St. Paul wa9
a tent-maker, Rabbi Ishmael was a needle-
maker, Rabbi Jonathan a cobbler. Rabbi Jose
was a tanner. Rabbi Simon was a weaver.
Among the Talmudists there was a cele-
brated Rabbi Joseph who was a carpenter.
What then becomes of Strauss*8 inference
that Joseph must have been a man of low
birth — not of the stock of David — because he
followed a mechanical trade?*'*

SPraiJaa,18Ml

S08

The iK>/y Land,

We may conclude tliis point by add-

iog tbat among the Jews the only

trades which could prevent a man

I fix)rn attaining to the dignity of high

[priest were weavers, barbers, fullers,

[perfumers, cuppers, and tannei-s.

But to return to the lite and work
of Jesus. Ilia fame was gradually
'gprcading, and he went about the
k«ma11 towns and hamlets:

*' Capernaum^ Chomtin Maj^dAlrt, Bethsdidiif

Balnmuuthu (icmSH^ preaching m tlie syaa-

ogues, visiting the fialtiu^^liOiiU and thrcJili-

ug-floors, ht'ding U>e sit-i, ttJid comforting

^tho poor; gentle in \m aspect and in his

[life; wbo as a sa;^e mid Kin»plo as a child;

wmuing people to hla vicwa by the charm of

lufl msumer and tho t>eauty of bis sayinga."

His first aim was to win tli« Jews

fi'om the Oral Law, to convince them

I of its emptiness; it is the key to the

Jbllowing scenes graphically <lcpictod

\j Mr. Dixon. Christ had pine to

Ijerusaiem for the feast of Puriiu, and

fwas walking by the Pool of Btlhosda

I in the sficcp market^ a ppot he had to

[puss daily* On the Ijanks of this

rpool were crowj^j of sick, the halt,

iged, anil blind, a spectacle sure to

f attract the eye of Jesus ;

" It was the Sabbath day.
" In tho temple hnrd by, tliese wretchos
DuM bear the gfoaning of bulla wuder the
■'Inace, the bleath)^ of lainba under the sacti-
ficisi knife, tho shouting ot* dealera as they
iold doves and shekels. Bakers were hurry-
ing through with bread. The eaptain of
tfjc teroplc was on duty with \\\b guards.
PriesM were marching In proec3«ion^ and
crowds of worshippers standing about tho
holy place. Tongties of flame leaped fainter
from the altars on which the prie9<« were
sprinkUog btood . * . but the wretches
who lay around (the pool) on their quilts
and rug9, the blmd, the leprous^ and the
aged poor, drew no e^inpasaion from tlio
busy priests One man, tho weakest of the
wrenk, had l>ecn helpless no \esA itian tirirty*
flight years. Over this man Josos paused
' ftnd said :

* Wilt thou bo made whale T
" * Rabbi, I have no man, when the water
Ironbied, to put me into the pool; Imt
Irhilo I »m oomiug, auother uteppetii down
cfure me.'"

The G>mpassionate anrwered him :

^ * IUio» take np thy bed and walk.*

^ At onee the life leaped quickly into the

poof iotn*a limbs.

he folded tap Ids qiiilt^ tai
to go away ; hut ^mo of i
ing him get ' 1 hk

run toward i * It

day; it i& no* .«i-.>.. ;vr
bed.' It was certainly i
Oral Law."

The Jews tuiii ttimcd
of the Sabbath into a cor9#>

** From the moment of henHn,^
liom, a sacred trumpet, called"
blown from the temple watl^
tlml the Sobhath had rommcofl
not allowed to tight a fire €ir_l
to l>oil a pot ; he cWd not [
a ditch, nor raiso aa arm J
his life ... A Jew
camp^ his village, or his eliy oo^
rest. Ilo might not begia a
going along a ro«d. he uiual i
down till the same vreot of
drt*- H ■ "M-^'ht not carry %^
cb J in his belt;

\\y I for uae, he baili

his leg. It' ho offended
tliese Tulcs, he was h* Id to \
awarded to the vil^l of
rabbins held that a vumtk mm^

di. '■■ ■■''-u, biit '' ' "^

y^'^- 4uior nr

gfiii utamaar i

a ttom unHi th§ JSabbaik hMf ilari#i

Jesus broke the Oral Lai
might bring hi» foUowcr*_
£»f its degradin;^ spirit, ;
the new Irulli tlmt *♦ 7
made f^^r man; not
Sabbaih*" After two irrv
ing chapters uj>on A
Ilerodias, we have oiu »
gogue^ Some writem
claim the remotest oatiq
institution^ but tn all pttiN
might be dated from
Thenji would b*^ a
met* I together away
by whom ilicy were
pray to tiieir God, to stQfj^ I
and to read the htw. TUi
to the synagogue,
more tium a ** me
but afler the
it became a popular
every little vilhige had its ft|
Nowt aa much of the wofk
was done in the ^ytuigogiM^ j
loved to go into them iumI to | ~"

I%$ Holy Land.

509

r services, it is desirable that we
I have a dear notion of what a
igae was:

loiue of unheim stones taken up from
ude ; squat and square of the ancient

style, having a level roof, but neither
»r tower, neither dome nor minaret to

the eye ; such was the simple synagogue
ews in which Jesus taught . . Inside
& synagogue is like one of our parish

with seats for the men, rough sofas
1 half covered with rushes and straw ;
r seat stands in the centre like that of
ue, for the elders of the town, a desk
reader of the day ; at the south end a
^ncealed by a hanging veil, in which
ih, a written copy of the Pentateuch,

in the sacred ark. A silver lamp is
kept burning, a candlestick with eight

pulpit, a reading-desk, are the chief

of furniture in the room

Q times women were allowed to enter
16 men, though they were even then
firom father and son by a wooden

• .. . Before entering a synagogue

Is expected to dip his hands into

. . . Ten persons are necessary
I a meeting ; every town or city having
^ogue appointed ten men called bat-
smen of leisure), who were bound to
at the hour of prayer. . . Higher
96 was the chazzan, who took chaise
bouse and scroll. . . The meturgc-
18 an interpreter of the law, whose

was to stand near the reader for the
id translate the sacred verses, one by
xn the Hebrew into the vulgar tongue.
bim were the elders. . . . When
ople came in they first bowed to the
w dders took their places on the raised
n; the rich went up to high seats near
t; the poor sat on wooden sofas, mat-
h straw. ... A prayer was said,
' the Psalms of David sung. The
a walked up to the veil, which he
Sde with reverence, lifted the ark from
16, took out the torah, carried the roll
the benches, every one striving cither
I or touch it with his palm ; the she-
»d tlic lesson for the day ; at its close
ler expounded the text in a sort of
i, when the torah was carried back,
myers began. . . . Every hearer

those times a right to express his
1 of the sacred text, and of what it
(I

r Lord availed himself of this
which every Jew possessed, of
ing in the synagogue upon the
vhich had heen r^; and Mr.
I has worked up two scenes
mown in the career of our Lord,
an the snrroiinding incidents

and scenery, 8o graphically and so
accurately that no one could read
these descriptions without rising
from them with a clearer and more
complete understanding of the simple
statement of the gospel. The gos-
pels were not written as historical
sketches, but as vehicles for the vi-
tal truth they contain ; consequently
anything that resuscitates the scene
and reproduces the incidents as they
took place, with all their peculiar
surroundings, must he of great value
in assisting us to comprehend more
readily, and to retain in our minds
more vividly the events of our Lord's
career. We think this is more pre-
eminently the characteristic aim and
achievement of this work than of the
many others we have read upon the
subject, and wo shall instance one,
the scene in the synagogue of Caper-
naum. The first alluded to was the
declaration of Jesus in the synagogue
at Nazareth ; but as many of the
incidents are included in this of
Capernaum, we content ourselves
with giving it somewhat in detail, as
an illustration of the peculiarity we
have already mentioned. Let the
reader first peruse the simple state-
ment in the gospel of St. John, vi.
ch., 25 v., to the end, and then the fol-
lowing; or better still the whole of
chapter xvii. in the second volume of
Mr. Dixon's work, called The Bread
of Life, and he will rise from it with
a much more vivid conception of one
of the most trying scenes in our Lord's
history. On the steps of the syna-
gogue a motley crowd had collected,
eager, excited, and curious, for it was
just afler the miraculous feeding of
the 5,000, and th^ were fiill of it ;
they had heard of it in all its stu-
pendous power ; it was the miracle of
all miracles most likely to overpower
the Jewish mind ; it recalled to them
the words of Jehovah :

*'At even ye shall eat flesh, and in the
morning ye shall be filled with bread, and
ye shall know that I am the Lord your Qod.*'

And this man, this son of Joseph the
carpenter, had fed 5,000 people on

SIO

Hui Baig Lm±

fire barley loaves and two dmali fish*

es. They saw I he little boat on llie
beach in which Jesus had come ; they
had heard of his walking on the wa-
ter that very niprht; and now ihe
crowd was jucreasing, for the country
was aroused, and people eame flock-
ing from all ikitIb to see this man who
did 8UcU tnarvcllous things.

'* J€8QS sat io the synagogue la his usoal
piftce. T\w Jt'MTJ poured iu, each tnati and
woman maiclng lovrty reverence toirard the
ark. . . , The serdoe began with the prayer
of Bireet mccRae, after which the coagrcg»-
ttoa^ the batlanim leading, mug P^alma of
David ; when these were mna^, the chazzan,
going up to the ark, drew aside the veil and
took out the uored roll^ which he carried
round the aisles to the reader of the daj,
who raised it in his hands, »o that all who
were present could see the sacred text. Then

the whole congregation rose Opening

the scroll, the reader read out the section or

chapter fur the day When ihe lesson

I ftnifthedt the chazzan took the scroll from
\ the reader and carried it back t<» its place
behind the veil. Then when the roll was
restored to the aric, they sang other psaJms,
after which the older delivered the midrash,
an exposition of the text which had been
read. The time now hciug come to question
rmd be queiUoned, all eyes turned on the

If each er who had fed the 5,000 men

[ ¥hetr questions were abarp and loud :
** ^ lUbbi^ when oamest thou hither f*
^' ^ Verily, verily, I say unto you, y« ask me
Dot because ye saw the miracles, bnt lieuaude
lye at-e of the loaves and were filled. La-
I bor not for the meat which perisiioth, but
^ibr that meat which cndurcth unto ererliuit*
I ing life, which the Son of Man shall g\te unto
[ jou, for him hath God the Father scaled.'*
*^ Then they asked him t
^* * What niitat wo do that we may work the
[works of God f

*To which he answereil, with a seoond
I|mb1te declaration, that he was Christ the 8oa
Of God:
*' *Thifl \a the word of God, that y© bcUere
I him whom he hatli wnt/
" * W hat sign showe^t thou that wc may
and believe thee! What dcwt ihou
lirork ?'

** Full of the great act which many wit-
neees declared that they had seen in the
desert beyond the lake, they wished to tiave
it repeated before their eyes ; so they said
to him :

^ ^\ ' Our fathers did cat manna in the
wildemods, as it is written, he gave them
bread from heaven to eat.*
** Jesua look up their thought
*^ * Yer ily» renly^ I my tmto you, Moses

^ve you not tba braftd (laai j
my Father givelli jtra Um ^
heaTen. For the brrad
which ♦i*M...ti, .i..<ft^ from
life un ! '

*' * H Mire ^re us 1

" Je#utf •iiflw«f>ed ihem :
'*'! am the bmd df
Cometh to me shall not liii
believetb m me shall never i
For I am come dn" '
mine own will, t ill

sent me, thai of j .«« I

I should lose notliing* but ahOQ
at the la£t day.* . . .

^*The elders, the baUanim,
gaxcd into each otherV faoeS| i
mnnnur sgainst him, jusl \
Nazareth had mvrmaied i

** * Is not this Jesiis
whose father and mother we ka
i^ it, then, thai he sailh, I aoi
from hearen ?*
^^ Jesus spoke to them s|;tt& :
^** Murmur not Muong
man can oome to me eieept
which sent me draw him; end

him up the last dAj I asA j

of life lamthellrUigl

came down from heaven; if aofj
of this bread he shall lite Ton
and the bread tliat f will mm ia|
which I will girt? for the lift of t

^' StniU6?u d<xitrinc« for
Then leapt hot words
some of thosm who had me
htm drew back. If he were Ifat ^
Sou of David, tha Ktftf? of
he not roarchiag ' <

driftng out the Kur
kingly crown ? ' ii
his fieeh to eat r

*'The Lord spoke wld^^
their discontent axid cusgnt^
they wanted an earthly Chiiit:

** ' Exce]>t ye cat of the Ih^
of Man, atid drink his blooil,
life in you.*

" This was too aweli for [^
some who bad been bfOqg|b|1
belief. . < . . The eervke of lb» ]
elided^ the elders ceme down i
form, the cfauiin put away
vcascls, the eongtvgation came
sun, angry In word and
They wanted facts ; he bad j
They hungered for mir
new shower of manna ; be had
symbolically his desh and
had set their hearts on
who would march against <
would cause Judaa of '
gotten, who would put thn \^
the Great to shame. Tbey I
ibr earth, and ho ha'
hearen.*

Th$ Holy Land.

511

e scene was drawing to a
!sa8 went on with his work
tamnlt in the synagogue,
himself to the senseless rites
Pharisees, defying the oral
ing the sick, and preaching
!ople« Passing through the
rom Galilee a Syro-Phene-
lan who had heard of him,
eips seen him, ran after him
id, and besought him to heal
Iter who was a lunatic* The
urged him to send her away,
e would not have been sc^e
1 another conflict with the
bat quarter, and to heal this
roman's child would be sure
hem on his track. Turning
Mnan, Jesus told her he was
to the lost sheep of Israel ;
lersisted, crying, " Lord, help
evidence oF faith which was
icient, and Jesus turned to
said, ** Great is thy faith, O
le it unto thee as thou wilt."
i a fatal blow to the Jewish
ness, a Gentile had been

the church, and the pride
ew humbled forever. On
Sabbath day which Jesus

earth, he struck another

be ceremonial law, by taking

les to dine at the house of

n a leper. He had reached

and taken up his abode in

1 of Martha and Mary, among
St and the poor, for that last
f% now called in the church
week« The scene was an
e one. * The city, as far as
cmld reach, was one vast en-
t, caravans were arriving
rr durection, bringing thou-
Jews to the feast, who, se-
eir ground, drove four stakes
arth, drew long reeds round
1 covered them with leaves,
a sort of bower; others
Bmall tents with them; the
J, Mount Gibeon, the plain
JiDy the valley of Gihon, the
ilvet, were all studded with
i crowded with busy people
; to finish their preparations

before the shofa should sound at sun-
set, and the Sabbath begin, when no
man could work. In the temple, the
priests, the doctors, the money-chang-
ers, the bakers of shew^bread, were all
at work, and the last panorama in the
life of Christ commenced.

On the first day in Holy Week, now
known as Palm Sunday, Jesus entered
Jerusalem on an ass's colt, a promi-
nent figure in the festivities, for the
crowds rushed tp see him, with their
palms, and marched with^ him singing
psahns ; they had come out from Je-
rusalem to meet him, and they escort-
ed him into the city. At night he re-
turned to Bethany.

On the Monday and Tuesday he wen.
early to the temple, mixing among
the people, restoring sight to the
blind, and preaching to the poor. As
his life began with a series of tempta-
tions, so it was the will of his Father
that he should be persecuted with
them at its close — a lesson we may
all do well to dwell upon. Up to the
last days of his life Jesus was sub-
jected to temptations. On the Tues-
day some emissaries of the Sanhe-
drim came to the court where he was
preaching to question him, and gather
evidence against him. They found
him amongst a crowd of Baptists, and
demanded his authority for teaching.
Christ retorted by putting them to the
dilemma of stating whether John's bap-
tism was of heaven or not ; they were
too much afraid of the people to say
it was of men, and if they said of
heaven, Jesus would have reproached
them for their want of faith; they
confessed their ignorance. Then each
party tried to entrap him.

Tlie Pharisees brought him a wo-
man taken in adultery. By the Mo-
saic law this offence would have
been punished with death. But the
Roman government would have exe-
cuted any Jew who would venture to
carry out such a law, and therefore the
question seemed to compel Jesus to
speak either against Moses or the Bo-
mans. He quietly turned to the wit.
nessesy and UM the man who was in

T/ie Hot^ LmdL

noc^t among lUem to cast the ^&t
stone at her.

Tlie Heradiemi tempted him on a
point of tribute. They had two taxes,
one to God an J one to Ciesar, both
were disputed, and ihey consulted him
in order to involve him with God or
Ca^Bar ; but he foiled them by con finn-
ing both :

** Render unto Cieaftr tlie things which
arc Cicaar'^ 'aad unto God the Huogs thai
are God^a." *

They began to be astonished.

The Sadducees tempted him with
their dogma of the non-resurrection.
They told him pnceringly of a woman
who had married seven husbands* and
they wanted to know whose she would
be in the life to come. Jesus i*eplied
calmly ;

*♦ In the resurrection they licither marry
nor arc given in iiiarriagei but arc o^ the nn-
gels m heaven.*^

And the Sadducee?5 with their philoso-
phy, their learning, and their unbelief,
retired in confusion*

On the Wcdnesdfttf he remained in
Bethany in scelusion, while Judas was
arranging; for his safo betrayal to An-

I and the nobles,

rhnrsJay Jesus sent Peter and John
into Jerusalem to prepare the Pass-
over, and at sunset tliat day he and
the twelve sat down to the last supper;
Judtts left to sec Annas, and after
8in^n«: a hymn, the other disciples nise
from the table, passed thron^Th the
slieep'gate into the Cedron valley, and
came to Gethsemane. Here Jesus
withdrew, and while his disciples
were sleeping, he watched and pmy«l
until the betrayers came, and tlie kiss
of Judas revealed him to thein. The
8anl»edrim wa^ summoned in the dead
of the night, and when the members
arrived they found Annas examinirtg
witnesses, but with no avail, they
could not substantiate any charge
agriinst him that the Ifoman govern-
ment would allow them to punish
with death, Annas told him to spenk
for himself, but he would not. The

hlj2:h priest then Aaid, ^ A
Christ r he said, ** I am,**
nas asked him who were bi
and Jesus replied : ** I efid
the world, I taught in tbe
and in the temple* wlulliier
it?8ort, in secret I have nd
ask them which heard me,
what I have said.** The ol
temple smote him, and Am
him to Ik; bound with cords,
it Wiis day tliey went in a h
palace of Caiaphas, Hrrc
questioned nErain^ and s&nswi
he was the Chrii^t^ th** high
his clothes, in sign that it
phemy and wortliy of dci
Sanhedrim pronoun rH hii
and I he otBcers atrri
torian gate^ and d^Mi .i\

oner into the handi* ot PtUit
The vacillation of Pi]
scene in our Lord^s
alL Mr. Dixon leaves
Bcrvalion, ** They form a divl
in the history of man, and
to the writers who c-ouhl not

A good book is ita own
and wo may safely leave
Dixon's to itself; but we
from testifying our ii[ _
such a %^iuable adtlition
ords of eastern travel It
fluous to say that it ts excel
ten, as it ematiates from the
a tyro, but of a mastei
style is too well known
a style graphic, poinle*
sive, the result of clear
curate delineation, m
sort of Frith-like poi
as witness the description of
life of Jaffa, which, as fta
piece of w*ord-paiiiting. is

The reader is led
ered seejies of the Hi
artist as well as a bcI
journeys on revives tins
we see the patriarchal
the flocks gracing on
I'eady- writer with hia
the city gate. We
strelsy and the tramp
floldicrly ; wo peer ialo

€86 ancient wells bnilt by the
s, and listen to the conTersa-
e Samaritan woman with that
1 Btranger ; we linj^r at the
Khan, and see how natural is
of the gospel. As we near
n the grander figures of the
I pass over the scene, the
n their luxurj and pride, in
niliation and their sins, the
era of Machcrus and the dark
le behind its walls when the
he messenger of God fell to

wanton woman, and terror
k into the heart of the tyrant ;
did ceremonial service of the
rith its altars, its sacrifices,
obed priests ; the Sadducees
ig in their palaces, with serv-
riages, gardens, living their
18, godless lives ; the Phari-

their demure aspect, broad
iplied phylacteries ; the hel-
2oman soldiery, the imperial
>vering over the scene as the
sed by scowling at the pagan
the holy city ; and then that
38 god-like figure wandering
J streets followed by crowds
B, now entering the templl^
> preach to them, and now
on his way to heal some lame
leper ; his wanderings' along
ying roads of Galilee; his
with the people in the syna-
:he popular gathering-place ;
ig part in the service and
he Scriptures ; his final com-
y the holy city, the* betrayal,
68 of his trial, the frantic
s of the Jews, the vacillation
), the terrible suspense and
late triumph of his foes, all
d many more incidents of
nd gospel history are reviv-
snacted, as it were, amid the
Des and in the very places
ey once took place. We re-
n, that thi» work is an excel-
imentary and illustration of
pel narrative ; and though
)f iU author has been nobly
in the controversial defence
DBpely yet perhaps even great-
vIl. IV. 83

er good nia^c^ dtMVt^^&f^gShihi'
tion and illustratteiF^jf^TBTnfe and
work of Christ. To hold him up to
the eyes of men is the best antidote to
scepticism ; and whatever tends to do
that, to plant the image of Christ in
the hearts of men, is a good work ;
the illustration of his individuality,
standing out as he did in his times,
and as he does in every time, distinct
from all men and things. We take
np the great work of any age, its char-
acteristic achievement, and we find the
impress of the ago stamped indelibly
upon it ; it smacks of the time and the
scenes. Homer is pervaded with the
valor of a mythic heroism, bloodshed
and victory. Dante is the very best
reflection of mediasvalism — ^its deep,
superstitious piety, its weird dreams,
and its peculiar theology. Shake-
speare, though he has written with
spotless purity, yet bears traces of the
tolerated licentiousness of the Eliza-
bethan age. But Christ and his gos-
pel stand out distinct, totally distmct
from the times and the life when they
appeared. That gospel could not
have been produced by the age, for it
was an antagonism to it ; the age was^
a degenerate one, a mixture of fonaal
ceremony, and licentious unbelief; pa-
ganism was waning ; Rome becom-
ing debased ; the ancient traditions of
the Jews were lost in human inven-
tions and Rabbinical fantasies, when,
rising up in the midst of all this de-
basement, this corruption, these anom-
alies, came Christ and his gospel, pure
among rottenness, gentle in the midst
of violence, holy among flagrant in-
fidelity and wanton vice, the Preacher
and die preaching both sent from
somewhere, but manifestly not from
the world, not from oriental bar-
barism, not from western paganism,
not from Jewish corruption ; it could
then have come from no other place
than heaven, and had no other author
than God. And when we reflect upon
what was compressed in that three
years' labor, and compare it with
systems which have^ oocupied men's
Uvea to sketch oat merelyi and taken

'514 On the Apparition of Our Lord to ike DiocipUi at Emmm

ages to perfect; when we see that
this greatest system, which has spread
over the whole civilized world by the
force of its own truth, was in three
short years laid down and consoli-
dated, every principle defined, every
rule established, every law delineated,
and an impetus given to it by its great
Master, which has always kept it ad-
vancing in the world against every
opposing force, and in spite of ewery
disadvantageous circumstance, all
doubt about its individuality, its
superhuman character, and its divine
origin, must vanish from the mind.
Therefore we think, in conclusion.

that the best thing for Christ
to do in this world is, to
Christ before the eyes of
matter how, so that he be
boldly and faithfully, be it
voice, the pencil, or the pc
this instance before us), or, b(
by the more impressive exhi
Christ in a Christian life. If
to save men, let us display
ways and everywhere in
fidence that he will fulfil
divine promise—^ I, if I be
from the earth, will draw
unto me."

ON THE APPARITION OF OUR LORD TO THE DISC

AT EMMAUS.

" WhUil he WM at table with them, he took bread, and bletsed, aod brake, and gare to t
their ejes were opened, and they knew him."

DISCIPLE.

** Lord ! grant to thy servant this singular gracei
To gaze but for once on thy beautiful fieuse."

JESUS.

^ Most easily may'st thou this blessing secure :
Who gives unto mine, unto me gives instead.
Of thy loaf give a part to my suffering poor,
And thy hoid thou shalt see at the breaking of bread.

Huh &mbeam'$ OkrUtmoi Story.

515

LITTLE SUNBEAM'S CHRISTMAS STORY.

bless yon, kind gentlemen, for
rry Christmas, and thank you
>r these nice things ; but you
i be angry if I say I'm almost
is Christmas day, for you see
I me think about last Christ-

the Christmas before.
Mr. Willsup's little girl— Mr.

that is dead, you know. I

you think I ought to wear
ind so I woiild, but mother

are too poor, and we must
im in our hearts. I do mourn
3art, oh ! so much, I can't tell
doti^t like to acknowledge it,
lives me an ugly pain and a

sinking about my heart when
of it, but it was on a Christ-
;ht that we lost poor father,
L afraid he wasn't right, you
nd, at the time.

! was a time when father was
lice, good man, and when we

poor, as we are now. We
ways live up in this cold, bare

We used to live in a fine,
use, all to ourselves; and we
lice garden in front, full of
owers, and a long back porch
ine running over it ; and we
dutiful parlor where we talk-
5 visitors only — ^not to sleep in
k in as we do here, when we
Y fire ; and I had the cosiest
droom you ever saw, with a
u* in the comer, and on it a
r the Blessed Virgin, white as
and Chip, that's a canary-
ng in his cage in the window

was fine weather, and cat su-

a good fellow ; and then we
ver forks and spoons; and

that's the horse, and Dash,
our dog, and Pussy, and oh I
f nice thingSi I never could

tell you all in a long time. But we
haven't got any of them now, for we
are poor, and father's dead, and we
must only mourn in our hearts.

I hardly know how to tell yon all
about it, for though I am little Tve
seen a good deal ; so much bad and
trouble that my mind goes quite round
and round sometimes thinking over it.
If you ever saw poor father after we
got to be poor, that wouldn't tell you
how he looked as I recollect him. Oh !
he was so much changed I I used to
be so proud of him, and delighted to
go out to walk with him in the street
or across the fields ; and I used to love
him so much — ^not that I didn't al-
ways love him just as much as ever,
only I didn't get so much chance to
love him, you understand, when he
got to stay away from home and be^-
oh! my heart, how it aches I

Father was a handsome-looking
man once, and so smarL Everybody
bowed to him in the street But he
got rough and careless, I know, and it
made me feel sorry to see him go out
without brushing his hat, or asking
me to do it for him, as he used to do.
And then his face turned to such a
different look from old times. It got
puffed up and red, and his eyes that I
remember were so bright and so deep,
for I used to climb up on his knee
often, and look 'way down into them,
and then he would laugh and ask me
If I could see his thoughts, and I al
most fancied I could sometimes, and
give me a sweet kiss, and call me his
darling Susy ; but when he changed,
you know, his eyes seemed to be, how
shall I say it ? so fiat and soft, and he
never seemed to be looking anywhere
in particular half the time.

Xou Bee it was business and ap-

Littii Sunheam*9 ChrisimoM

rintmenU that chaDged liim. Wljen
wished him to 8lay home and we
would all enjoy ourselves — for we had
tbo pleasantcst times together, father,
mother, and me, and baby, that a dead ;
and perhaps Dash and Pussy Uto
sometimes, you know — then be would
be obliged to excuse himself on ac-
count of business and apfmintmcntd,
which I fear were not always with
the best of f>eople, for when he said
be was going out mother would sigh
$0 deep and no I'jug; and then when
he came borne late at night I often
woke up and heard mother coaxing
him and soothing him, and I am 9ure
frequently crying and sobbinift and that
would make me cry too, all alone by my-
self ; and so the time went on, till father
began to take less and lesA nptice of
either mother or of mc. As far dear lit-
tle baby » even when she sickened and
died, I don't think he seemed to under-
atand it, and he stofjd by the grave
and looked at the little coffin being let
down as if he were dreaming.

It was not long before father left
off* doing almost any business) in the
daytime, and only went out at night.
I noticed then that we began to sell
•lome of our nice furniture, and our
silver forks and spoons. I suppose, as
we scarcely ever had any visitors now»
we did not need them ; but the bouae
began to look bare and desolate and
strange, as if it wasn^t our house ; and
the servant quarrelled with mother
and lefl us, and we didn't get another,
but mother did the work herself, and
it made her sick, for she wasn't used
to it. Sam, our man, went away, be-
cause after the horse and carnage was
sold he had nothing to do. I recollect
hearing him say to mother :

** Pd stand by you and Susy, mh?s,
as Tve always stood by you, and it*s
not wages, but times is changed, and
I know you ain't able to have me."
Ajid then he pulled his hat down over
his eyes so far that he had to \\i\ it
up ngain before he could see his way
out of the front door; and then ran
across the garden and down the stre-et,
» if he were running away from some-

body* I cried a good deal vte
motlier told use be was not gobig to
come back, for I loired Sam vett
much, and Fm not aabamed of if
either, though Pinkey Silrer wM I
ought to be, for he was just Vke i
brother to me, and a betier btDlkr
than Finkcy Silret's broCbar •ftr
was.

Once, on a Chnstmas «*▼«, I vii
going to hang up my stoektii^ 93 I
had always dom«, for good Santa Oral
to put something m it, when mioKktr
bur^t out into such a violeai fit of
crying that I wa^i afraid aba woiU
die. When she could ifnaak to m
she wanted me to lei Sauta GLni $fi
to some other ehildren tUli jear; tat
I determined to gtvn hiiu a cliaooi Is
leave me^ say, a doll, if be bappoad
to have one left over, and so I ^tmi
down stairs in my night-gown, ifltt
mother had gone to her rooai, ami
hung my stocking up in the oid pla^
Just as 1 had done it| lather cilDt
staggering in. He was rery bad, iod
fell ovcT several things. The ooiff
brought mother down-t^taurs, and fiitlM^
looking at mc. said so savagely IhaS it
sent all thebluod to my hoiiil:

'' What devilish nonaeiiaa ii tilt gal
about?"

**0h! douH blame the duli*'aii
mother, turning fiale and gpottiog b^
twecn him and me. '* Yoo know 31 il
Christmas eve, John.**

Then he swore many awfol oalH
and said be didn't caft» for Cbmtaiai^
and that he was not going to be taantp
nl with his poverty by hia aura ehii*
drcn, fuid went stamping arooad Iki
room in a furious passion. Matim
went up to htm lo coax blm, and pol
her arms amund his neck; iMft It
threw her off and knocked ber doaiw
and, though you mayn*t beBiffe il« ki
actually litled up his foot aodstaMid
upon her fi\cc. That b if hjf murtwr
looks so bfld now, with Hme iiti<
scars, but she was ?rrT bcaatiM kt*
fore that, as everybody ktUMts* Wka
mother fell, Da^h sprang ap Awa it
hearth where he lay eorhpd «fi»aai
barked at Auher.

LUiU Smiieam's CkriHrnas Story.

617

ey've all tamed against me,''
^ '^even the dog. But HI
^tf," sajs he to Dash.
I I saw mother trying to get

the hlood all streaming down
(s from her face and mouth, I
:, and don't recollect any more
woke up, it must have been
xt day, with a dreadful head-
[ crept out of bed and went
hall, and there I heard people
down in the parlor. It was
Mrs. Thrifty, our next-door
', and tlie doctor. The doctor
L Thrifty were trying to per-
otherto do something, but she
in^, "Never! I couldn't—
n r and words like that

terrible things had taken
1 put my mind so astray that
>rgot I shouldnH listen ; but I
lembered it, and went away,
red where father was, and
[ would look in his room to
was there. In the old times,
ither changed, I used to be

in, bright and early, to his
1 climb up on a chair and

before he got up; and he
!all me his ** Little Sunbeam"
e creeping in to say it was
I'here he was now, lying on
fithout taking off his clothes
y boots, in a deep, heavy
fh! I did so want to love
I was afraid to wake him up
m so, he looked so frightful,

his teeth in his dreams,
ught I might be " Little Sun-
ice more, even if he didn't
md I got a chair and climbed
•cached my arm over round
emd gave him a kiss. It did
like father^s face, but I sup-
ad forgotten, it was so long
laed bun before. Poor father!

mourn in my heart for him
Qother says we must do now.
iid to stay there, but before
?ay I knelt down beside the
>rayed the Blessed Virgin to

to make him a good man

1 make bun give up drinking,
i mother well, and let me be

his " Little Sunbeam" as before. Then
I slipped back to my room and dress-
ed myself, and mother came up-staim
with her face all bandaged up, and
she told me not to say anything to
anybody about the last night.

That Christmas day wasn't like-
any Christmas day I can ever recol-
lect. I didn't find any toys from Santa
Claus in my stocking. We didn't g >
to mass, nor to see the little Jesus in
the Crib, nor to hear the children sing
around it. Nor we didn't have any
plum pudding ; and when I went out
on the back porch— oh! dear, how
my heart does ache— there lay poor
old Dash, with his head split open,
and quite dead.

You see I had so many tlungs hap-
pen that I don't recollect how things
turned out, except that mother and I
left our house one day, because we got
poor, mother said, and then we came
here, and she says we are never to
go back because our house is sold to
strangers, to whom father was in debt.
Pinkey Silver told me that the man
who keeps the grog-shop where poor
father was stabbed owns it now. And
I must tell you about that

It was the next Christmas day af-
ter the last one I told you about. We
had nothing to eat all day. Toward
evening mother told me to go to Mrs.
Thrifty's and ask her to please lend us
a loaf of bread. Mrs. Tluifty was
gone to a party, and so I had to wait
until near nine o'clock, when Greorge
Thrifty, that's Mrs. Thrifty's soUi came
in laughing and singing :

" Hie for merry Cbriiimas !
Ho for merry Christmas f
Hurrah ! for Christmas day !**

As soon as I told him what I want-
ed he ran and got a loaf of bread and
a pie and some cakes, and gave it all
to me ; and then he put his hand in his
pocket and turned it inside out, but
there wasn't anything in it, and says
he :

« Oh ! little one, Pm as sorry as if
Pd lost my grandmother ; but I wish I
hadn't spent all my Christmas, for I'd
like to give you some money.**

ChriiHan Charity.

I thanked him very much and came
away. A^ I was coming hotne I passed
the frrog*^ho[> [ spoke to you about. I
hoard loud, angry quarrelling and scuP-
!iin*^ going on, and falher*8 voice was
among the rest. I wa3 afraid to go
away, for I did not like to leave father
there to get hurt, aod thought I had
belter go in and persuade him to come
home with me. I had no sooner put
my head in the door than the nnin who
keeps the store told mc to ** be off,
that Ije didn't want any beggare around
h\n place ■*

** I don't want lo beg," said I, " I
I want father/' «nd just as I said that I
Lfiaw a knife flash in the gaslight, and
then — ^O my poor, mourning heart ! —
I poor father staggered and reeled to-
ward tne, and as he gsaw me he cried
[out:

**Wliy, 15 it you, Little Sunbeam!
I O my God V* and then he fell down
lftci*oss the sill of the door^ at my ifi^i%
[dead.

You see, dear, good gentlemen, you
I must not be angry if Trn ahno,st sorry
I it is Christmas. I know everybody
(iiught to be happy when Christmas
leomes ; and I saw a good many little
I boys and girls to-day as liappy as I
sed to be, for Tve been watching them
[•through a little peep hole I sci'atehed
^on the frosty window-pane, and it
[didn't seem real that tliey should be
^dowu there so happy, wishing each

other •* Merry Christnims,*'
here all alone^ motmiiiig tii
But }uu see what bos done

Do yoti tliink, dear, good
tfiat there are any other " '
beams" like me 't Do you tl
are any lathers that nrtj
mine ? Oh I pleiise do
lliem quick to smp nnl
again, or they sv
and me, and hiv
bare garret, and Santa
come down the chimney ofi
eve, because their cluldrea
any stockings to hang up,
will feel so hungry and so
night. Oh! I cnuW tell
mother could tell them* as sh<
that drink hrin
family, and that
hears the diniukiud .i
for hre^id. 1 don't like
think of that, but J con]
this morning bt*cause it is <
day*

Its all over now, I do i^
molher was here to say thsui
all those nice things, but »hi3
home till night, for she'* gimi
Mrs. Kabob*s to work, whens
to have a great party* But i
comes back Til tell her all abd
when we say our pray era io-nl
ask G(h1 to bless the gooikic
men who thought about oomii^
wish us a Merry Cknktinas,

cotiWifl

CHRISTIAN CHAIUTY.

*M». loQff at ffi did U imlo Ibt J«ait of Ibeae mf brellirts, ^ dU a iwlo Mt^

TfiERK IS a secret chamber in my breast
Of which my Jesus hath sole custody

But if my neighbor willetli there to rest,
Then Jeeus kindly lendeth him the key.

PrMem of ike Age.

510

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.

XI.

OB OBIOXNAXi fiTATB OP THE FIBflT PAB-
IHTB OF MANEIN1>— THE RELATION OF
ADAM TO ni8 POSTERITT — THE FALL
W MAN— ORIGINAL SIN.

The grand theatre of probation is
this eaithy and its chief subject the
hiuiiaQ race* The probation of the
angels was completed ahnost instan-
taaeooslj, and their transit to an im-
mntable state followed ahnost immer
diately on their creation. The proba-
taoQ of the human race is lon*^ and
oomplicated, diversified and extensive ;
and bj it the most magnificent ex-
hibitioD is made of the principle of
merit. It has also this peculiarity
tbat mankind were created, not merely
as individuals, each with his distinct
[HTobatJon, but also as a race ; and that
the whole race had a probation at its
origm, in the person of its progenitor.
It IB oar present task to unfold the
OatboUc dioctrine concerning the na-
^ and results of this original proba-
tioQ of the collective human race in
the first epoch of its creation.

The Catliolic doctrine teaches, in
the first pUice, that the entire human
face, at present inhabiting the globe,
is one ; not merely in being conformed
to one archetype, but also in being
descended by generation from one
common progenitor, that is, from
Adam.

That this is distinctly affirmed in the
book of Grenesis, which the Catholic
Church receives as a portion of the
inspired Scripture, according to the
obvious and literal sense of the words,
is not questioned by any one. It is only
necessary, therefore, to show that this
obvious and literal sense is proposed
by theauthority of the Catholic Church
afl Ibe true sense. That is, that it

is an essential portion of Catholic
doctrine, that God created at first (»o
pair of human beings, Adam and
Eve, from whom all mankind are de-
scended.

It seems evident enough that the
archaic records, in which the history
of the creation of man is contained,
were understood in this sense by those
who transmitted them from the begin-
ning of human history, and who first
committed them to writing; and by
Moses, who incorporated them into
the book of Genesis. This was the
traditional sense universally received
among the Jews, as is manifest from
all the monuments of tradition. It is
also the sense which is reaffirmed in
the other sacred and canonical books
which i'ollow those of Moses, wher*
ever they allude to the subject. For
instance : " Who knoweth if the spirit
of the children of Adam ascend up-
ward.^'* "Seth and Sem obtained
glory among men : and above every soul ,
Adam in the beginning,*'f The simi-
lar traditions of heathen nations are
well known. The Sacred writers of
the New Testament use the same ex-
plicit language. The genealogy of
Jesus in St. Luke's gospel closes thus:
" Who was of Henos, who was of Seth,
who was of Adam, who was of GodJ*
St. Paul affirms repeatedly and em-
phatically : " By one man sin entered
into tliis world, and by sin death :" ** by
the offence of one many have died r^
^ the judgment indeed was by one unto
condemnation :' " by one man*s offence
death reigned through one :" ** by the
offi}nce of one^ unto aU men to con*
demnation :*' " for as by the disobedi-
ence of one man, many were made ein*

ilLSl.

t Icolttt. zlij^ U.

55&0

PtiMeim

ners ; so also, bj the obedience of one,
many shall be made jusL*** These
passages are plainly dogmatic^ and
teach the relation of all men to Adam,
ai an essential portion of the do^tna of
original Bin. The whole force of th<J
parallel tictween Adam and Chriet de-
pends, also» on the individual person-
ality of the former, and his relation to
all mankind without exception, as their
head an J representative- The fianie
pamllel reappi»ars in another epi.-lle :
** For by a man came death, and by a
man the resurrection of the dead- And
as in Adjim all dte^ so also in Clmst
all shall be made alive," " The first
man Adam was made a living eoul ;
the last Adam a quicken in": epirit.
But not fir:st that which is spiritaaV
but that which is animal ; afterward
that which is BplrituaL The first man
waa of tlie catlhT earthly ; the second
man from heaven, heavenly. Such as
is the earthly, such also arc the earth-
ly ; and Bucli as is the heavenly, such
also are they that are heavenly. There-
fore as we have home the ima^ of
the earthly, let us bear al^^o the image
of the heavenly."!

Tliese passiiges all present the fact
of the orit^inal creation of mankind in
one pair from whom all men are de-
Fcended in an intimate and essential
relation with Chriatian doctnne, es-
pecially with the dogma of oHji^inal
(fin. It 13^ therefore, neccBsary to re-
gard it a:a a dogmatic fact, or a fact
pertain in)^ to the essence of the re-
vealed truth, which the sacred writers
taught with infalUbility under the in-
fluence of divine inspiration. So it
has been always reijarded in the
church, and is now held by the unani-
mous consent ot* theoloi^ians. It ts
also incorporated into the solemn defi-
nitions of taitb.

The canons of the second council
af Mile vis, and of the plenary council
of Carthage, a.d. ilB, agsunst the
Pelagians, contain the following defi*
nitiona :

Can, h Placuit, ot quicunqae dicit,

• SC tuke lU. afl, Rom. v. li-Uh.
floor. XV. 8J,2S,4&-1>.

Adam pnmum homincm mortaloB^
turn, ila, lU sive (>eccaTet» mc Ml
peccaret, more ret ur in ciOi'pcMT, koe
est de corpore exirel, non peocati m-
rito, sed neceaaitatu naturas^ aaatkoa
siL

Can* 2^ Item {ila'^uit, ut qatccmiqiir
parvulos recented ab uteris mxtniJD
baptizandoa negat, aut dicit to ^^
mis.iionem qutdem peccatomm eoi
baptizari, sed nihil ex Adam tnhtre
originalis peeeati, quod
lavacro ex[*ielur, undo sit
ui in eis forma baptismatid to
sionem peccatomm nnn vr.ra,8e4 fiUia
intelligatur, ^ git: qooeiia

non aiiter \\i \m **ft qiiod ail

Apostolus: Per

cat uni intra vit in > ^ , .

catum mors, et ita in
pertransiit, in quooniQea
itisi qm loi eeeksaia cat

ubiquc «i . mperiotellttJiiL

'*> Can. 1. It was decffeed* tliat wl^
soever says that Adarn^ CiW €r¥ *-"-
was nvide mortal, ao thai* wbt
sinned or did not sin, b^ aboold tjjci>i
the body, that ia, dcp.'irt from tlie bcdj,
not by tlie merit of sin, bat by tlMr
necessity of nature^ shoold be andcr
tlie ban.

"^ Can, 2. It was also <ii^r*v>^ tint
whosoever deni<»3 ihai n-

fonts are to be biiptixr^d, *

they are to be iudecxl hi;

the remission of !?in-. btit

original sin

expiated in t

whence it follows that i

form of baptism is ntni

not true, but false, sh'

ban ; since that is p«>:

understood which tl'

' By one man sin enter* u 1 1

and death by sin, and :*

upon all men, in '

ned ;* except as

everffwhere diffmcd iioi uLwc^

Stood it*'

These can ougb tioi

by ecumenic I i

t^ approved by Popea l iiootB i J*

and Zosimos, by them pnnaalgMl ii

the tmiversal church and laci&ed \ff

'0-

ijr

PrMmM ofA$Ag€.

521

t of the whole body of biah-
at tbej are justly included
\ fmal and irreversible de-
the Catholic Church. The
these canons was also re-
the Council of Trent, which
he clearest terms the dogma
sin as derived from the sin
the head of the human

lis non confitetur, primum
idctm^ cam mandatum Dei
» fuisset transgressus, statim
^ fftc, amisisse : A. S.
lis Adas prevaricationem

non ejus propagini, asserit
. . ant inquinatum ilium
ientiffi peccatum, mprtem

corporis tantum in omne
anum transfiidisse, non au-
catum, qnod est mors ani-

cam contradicit Apostolo
ir unum hominem peccatum
nundum, etc

Is hoc Ada peccatum^ qtiod
\m estf et propagatione, non
transfusum omnibus^ inest
prium .... per aliud reme-
it tolli, etc. : A. S.
iny one does not confess
$t mm AdcaUy when he had
d the commandment of
laradisc, immediately lost
^, let him be under the ban.
ay one asserts that the pre-
of Adam injured himself
lot his posterity .... or that
lefiled .by the sin of dis-
transmitted death and the
le body only to the whole
% but not also sin, which is
f the soul, let him be un-

: since he contradicts the

says : By one man sin
> the world, etc.

ny one asserts that this sin
fhich in origin is one, and
ferred into all by propaga-
' imitation, exists in each
own .... is taken away by
remedy, etc, let him be
an*

1 decrees affirm positively
ok human race without ex-

ception are involved in one common
ori^al sin, springing from one trans*
gression committed by the first man
Adam, and transmittal from him by
generation. The dogma of original
sin rests, therefore, on the fact that all
mankind are descended &om one first
man Adam, and is subverted, if this
fact is denied. An allegorical inter-
pretation of the sacred history of
Grenesis, according to which Adam
and Eve are taken to symbolize the
progenitors of several distinct human
species, cannot be admitted as tenable,
in accordance with the Catholic faith.
For, in this hypothesis, the different
human races had each a distinct pro*
bation, a separate destiny, a separate
fall, and are therefore not involved in
one common original sin, but each one
in the sin of its own progenitor. This
doctrine of original sin, namely, that a
number of Adams sinned, and that
each one transmitted his sin to his own
progeny, so that every man is born
in an original sin derived from some
one of the various primeval men, is
essentially different from the Catholic
doctrine as clearly taught by Scripture
and tradition, and defined by the
authority of the church. Moreover,
the unity and individuality of Adam,
as the sole progenitor of the human
race, is distinctly affirmed in the decrees
just cited, and in all the subsequent
decrees concerning the primitive state
of man which have emanated from
the Holy See, and are received by the
universal church. We must consider,
therefore, the doctrine of the unity of
the human race as pertaining to the
faith. Ferrone affirms this, in these
words : ^ Prop. IL Universum hu-
manum genvs ah Adam omnium proia-
parents propagatium est. Haec proposi-
tio spectat adfidem ; huio enim innititur
dogma de propagatione peocati originar
lis." ^ The entire human race has been
propagated from Adam the Jirst parent
of cUl. This proposition pertains to
faith ; for upon it rests the dogma of
the propagation of original sin."*

* PirrvBe, Pnal. TheoL De Hook ikmk

592

J^tkms cf the Agd*

Bishop Lyncli, of Charleston, who
is not only one of the most learricri of
our theolof^ians, but a, man profoundly
vei'sed in the physical sciences, in a
very abh^ and interestinjr lecture re-
cently delivered in New York, tlius
speaks on thi^ matter :

** 8nme nowaday?, didreirarding all
that Uoly Heripuire ieaehes us con-
cerning the origin of man, or treating
it as a myth and fabli*, referring at
moet only to the Cauciisian rac«?, \>ve-
tend that America had her own spe-
cial Adain and Evc» or, a-* tbey think
more probable, quite a number of
them contemporaneously or eucces*
aivcly in different localities,

**I shall not here und^nlake to dis*
cuss thi3 last opinion, ventnrffi certain-
ly against the teachinga of divine rev*
eicdion^ atid, as I conceive, no leas
against the Boundcat principles of
philosnphy, of comparative nimtomy^
of philology, and of natural Inslory.
I will as.su me it as an established and
accepted trutli, that God made all na-
tions of one bltKKV* •

The only point we have been cn-
d<»iavoring to make, that the doctrine
of the unity of the race pertains to es-
sential Catholic doctrine, \»^ we think.
fairly made. The scien title refutation
of the contrary hypothesis is a work
raof^t desirable, in our opinion, but one
requiring a degree of scientific kimvv-
ledge which the author does not pos-
sess. It is a work, a bo, which could
be accomplished only by an extenuivo
treatise. The judgment of the dU-
tinguUlfed author ju!*t cited may be
caken, however, aa a 8umming up of
t!je Tordict of a great Wly of scientific
mon, given on sclent itic ground;*, in
favor of the doctrine of the unity of
the race. The contrary doctrine is
mere hypothesis, which no* imtn can
possibly pretend to demonsu*ate. It
cannot, tlterefore, be bix>ught out to
oppose the revealed Catholic doctrine*
ily pother is even when supported by a
certain amount of scienliflc probabiUty,

• L«oiur< bjr the RL Her. P, N. Ljrncli, !>.!>.» OQ
Am<*r],e4 tkcfurtt C>>laiabuj. U«port>i Ic) the Moir

u not science* Real
tably certaiiu There ^
fore, ever arise a real
between science and
Science will never control]
tion, and revelation do<:*5 not
any part of eeiencc which
known or ever will b<x*ai<
We are not, however, to hn
lief in revealed Irutlw in
until their perfect agrees
geienttfic truths i^ demotulii
are we to tolerate mere
and pi-obable opinions »n •c!
they arc contrary to Irutlu
rcvelationt Wc^iusc (hej cac
II d to bo lab<}OQp<l

1, .l13.

There are <m\y two real
to be eneountcrefl in the
the Bcienljfic | O

diJUculty of tti tar

tions in type, • cii

diffi^rent famili l.i

within the commonly ri3cei«
period. The other id tJi^ il
explaining certain diaeovec
historical monuments oT I
certain gcologic4il disco?ec
remains of man or Itumaii
accordance wiUi the Mune
ha5 been justly and aeotelj
by a recent British writer
jcct, lliat the ' -i

this second he • , i

to establish the acocd^iy^ q|
a longer chronology > de^i!
jectiona under the firM li
a lonjr^^r time for these ck
the <r ^ suppostnji

real > . from a i

vanishes. Tlic chrnTioUi|{if
tic*s under the second htii
cla^see. One chkK* rbUtifs
tory of well-kn*»^^" •-•*!-di
tions^ whose I rec

been discover! w, mmm^^^uhi
period than the one comcn
oncd b«Mween the r " *'
that of Moc^rs, T
trilK*s or individaab auoui
ing is known historiefttl]r»
geologJcal evidence
antiquity (.luui that

PrMems of the Age.

523

epoch of the creation of man.
these difficulties in no way tend
Hign the doctrine of the unity
race, but merely the chronology

history of the race from the
of the creation of the first man,
has been commonly supposed to
ablished by the authority of
ire. If this last supposition
»e classed among theological
IS not pertaining to essential
ic doctrine, and we may be per-

BcUvd Jide et auctoritate Ec-

to admit a chronology long
1 to satisfy these claims of a
antiquity for man, all difficulty
3s. One thing is certain, that
inspired books of Moses did
Uy contain an exact chronology
tan history from Adam to the
» of Israel, we cannot now ascer-
tbin fifteen hundred years what
since there is that amount of
>n between the Hebrew and
copies. The weight of proba-
is decidedly in favor of the
gint, which gives the lunger
[(>gy. Yet, it is impossible to
I how the variat^ion between
ptuagint and the Hebrew, and
iation of the Samaritan version
)th, arose. The great essential
ertaining to religious doctrine
een handed down by Scripture
dition in their unimpaired in-
We are bound to believe
B providence of God watched
eir transmission, and protected
om any designed or accidental
>n. Some general principles
A of chronology are included in
ential history, which Ls guaran-
ns by mspiration and the au-
of the church. Nevertheless,
iionological data are manifestly
mpleto and imperfect, that a

and accurate chronological
cannot be deduced from them,
as it is possible to form a
laical system at all, it must be
r the help of all the collateral
B ire can find, This evidence,
s we are aware, does not tend
lUshy with a h%h degree of

probability, an epoch of creation more
than a few thousand years earlier than
the common one of 4,000 years before
Christ This is certainly true of the
historical records of Egypt, the princi-
pal source of new light on the ancient
historical epochs. We are warranted
by the Septuagint in adding fifteen hun-
dred years to the common period. It
is only, however, on critical and his-
torical grounds that the Septuagint
has greater authority on this point
than the Hebrew, and not as having u
higher sanction. For the Hebrew is
the original and authentic Scripture,
and the authorized Latin Version fol-
lows it, and not the Greek. If we
can admit, then, a chronology longer
by fifteen* hundred years than the one
contained in the received text, on his-
torical grounds, why not one still
longer, if sound historical evidence
demands it? Supposing that the
Scripture originally did contain a
complete and infallible system of
chronology, it is evident that the
key to it was lost many ages ago ;
and we can just as easily suppose
that the discrepancy between the
Mosaic chronology as it now stands
and the chronology of the Egyptian
records has arisen by the same causes
which produced the discrepancy of the
Hebrew and Greek texts, as we can
assign causes why so great a discrep-
ancy should arise at all, and reconcile
this with the reverence due to the
sacred books.* This is a matter
which needs to be more thoroughly
discussed than it has been, by theolo-
gians who are fully acquainted with
the subject, before we can lay down
positively a principle upon which to
solve the difficulty. "We reject, how-
ever, as unprovable and untenable,
all theories which throw the antiquity
of man back to an epoch of vast re-
moteness, and assign hundreds or

* Archbishop Manning Bays: "No tyitem of
chronology is laid doirn in the sacred books. There
are at least tliree chronolofrles, probable and admissi^
ble, apparently^lven by Holy Scripture. It cannot
be said, therefore, that there are chronolo{rlcHl faolte
in Holy Scripture, forasmuch as no ascertained
chronology is there declared.**— Temporal MiasleB of
the Holy Qhoft, p. 171, AoMrloan tdttloo.

524

Problems of tkt Age*

thouaanfls of centuries to a prebls*
toric period, of which no records re-
main. It is on geological discoveries
solely that this hypothesis is ba$ed*
At present it 13 only a conjecture,
founded on the fact that human re-
mains have been found of a greater
antiquity than those formerly known,
whence it is concluded that they may
hereafter be discovered of a greater
antiquity still. We may safely wait
for geolc^y itself to clear up the ob*
scanty at preeent exiatiiig in regard
to iliia matliir, and to set righ*, as
science invariably does, the early
and hasty coojeclures of its own to-
taries. Whichever way the matter
may bo settled, Iho fossil remains of
human, skeletons or human works will
be assignable either to a period not
too remote to l^e included in the his-
toric period, or to one so remote that
it must be excluded from it. In the
first case^ there is no difficulty. Lj
the sec^ond, nothing is eslablished from
which the falsity of our the^tis can be
demonstrated. Our thesiti h^ that the
present human race now inhabiting
the earth is descended from one man,
Adam, When tht?re is any very
ptobable evidence presented that an-
other and distinct spcciefi, havin<^ a
physical organization like that of the
human race, once existed on the earth,
from which it ha^ l>eeorae extinct, it
will be time to examine that theory.
For the present we are concerned
with Adam only and his race ; to
which both our nvadere and ourselves
have but loo conclusive evidence that
we all belong.*

♦ Tht Oeotle SkqHtc, by Rer. C. A. Wmlvortb, mw
pa^tivrof ?t, Marj'sCharrt], Alhnnv, trrnls nf nr^Ti^i-nl

Wehavt aow lo eooiuder tbt
Catholic doctrioe teaehas of that iliia
in which the first paRiilt of the 1»
man race wi?re comtimted at tMr
creation. Briefly, it is this : Ihit ibii
was a supernatural state of ««ieiitT

*"■ iiiiTdU' iin!*,ls or A •■'

c ---nee by one whr,

h de^^rrrt * pliice -,<

%■ tivi'\ at lurifftlirAiton "

OflLthulic «clraUflc mtn to u

imilre cliAtt^t Tlilcb Uai Ut^

«f •eienec k^wanl rcreat^ r-

•nd in Ih? doctHfici of Adrri

9H iforkt wrlttm OD the &*-i

and aoietiee lo « (tMldwrn: u-m-i. .v i^t iiu[>,i.\.t

Mc4floli«yik«lia|»ArMi.ftlul Itttficiled Ui m4iiii^r

i4«(|Ule lA lh« finical IttlMleeHul wmju of Una ac^

and justice, in which were coaubiQ,
or with which were eonaeeted, tb« ^
of integntTt or i mm unity frtrnt eoe-
cupiscence, the g\h of actcnce, mod thit
gift of corporeal immnrtMlnv.

That man was er(*a iity and

justice is affirmed a^ v tJie ^

crec of the CounciJ of i 1 a part «f
which is cittxl above^ in wiacb Ailia
h declared " to have lost tf&mediildlf
the sanctity andjttstire in wkiek ktU
been constituted:^* '^ 5 tafia MUsdi^
tem et jtistitiam in quo eoQiiaM
fuenit ami^isse.** That ha poeieMil
integrity U proYcil by the flftme dfciw
which decl.'vrea that hj the fa!l be eH
"^ chan;red as tn hi$ hodg amd §aid kt$
somrthintf worse :*' ** aecQlidlllil eoMI
et animam in deterius conuaalelM
fuibse,^ That ho posseAicd tdenof b
pi*oved by the declaration of the bo^
of E(^iesiastieu£ : "* Disciplini dild>
lectuH repleyit illos. Creavit Uhs $»
tiam epb'itu!* :" ** He filled thetn wA
the knowledge of understanding, fli
created in them the 9cienc<^ of ill
spirit."* Thi» is exphiined and con^
orated by the traditional tr4u:hiii|i^
all the fathei-s and great Iheologiimi^
the church, llh immuiuty inm (kA
ia proved by tlie decrees ahoire oJ
and others tiuuiliar to aU.

It h ttho^n to 1x3 the CathoJic <lol^
trine that these gtfU wefe sufieniB^
ral, by the c ndemnatlcm of tJi« cdi^
trury dcx^trine by the Holy See. TU
following tbe^e^'of Baiuji, onv of ihl
precursors of .Tanseniiim^ were <m*
demned by Pius V* and Gttffff
XIII.:
^* 2 1 . 1 1 u manse nn tti ne mhUiiuUi^ ^
iltatio in consortium dftriiKS Mff*-
. *4 , debita fuit iniegritiili i^rtBi*^ o**-
ditionii;, ct pit>inde natQi«lb difittM
est, et non )>iupertmtura)js t 26^ lill»
gritas pnmiu ci-eaUonb nan fuit ial^
bita humaiuQ oaHtne i'TtltB!ii\ mt

Problems of the Age.

525

lis ejus eonditioj 55. Deus noo
et ab initio talem creare homi-
ualis nanc nascitur; 78. Im-
itas primi hominis non erat gra-
lefi ium, sed naturalis conditio ;
Jsa ettt doctorum senientia pri-
ominem potnisse a Deo creari et
ainejostitiftnataralu*' Clement
the Bail UnigenituSy also con-
1 the following proposition, the
Quesnel : *' Gratia Adami est
b creationis et erat deblta natu-
B et integrse."

. The elevation and exaltation
an nature into the fellowBhip of
ine nature was due to the integ-
its first condition, and is there-
be called natural and not super-
. ; 26. The integrity of the pri-
vation was not an exaltation of
nature which was not due to
its natural condition ; 55. God
ot have created man from the
ing such as he is now born ; 78.
imortalitj of the first man was
lenefit of grace, but bis natural
»; 79. The opinion of doctors
, that the first man could have
reated and instituted by God
t natural justice (righteous*
83d of Quesnel : " The grace
un is a sequel of creation, and
e to sound and integral nature."
plain from the decbions which
een quoted, and from the con-
t doctrine of all Catholic doc-
it the Catholic doctrine is : that
e of original sanctity and integ-
1 not fiow from the intrinsic,
il principles of human nature,
s not due to it, but was a free
prace superadded to nature, that
maturaL We do not. however,
t the opinion held by some
Jatholic writers, that congiuity,
>r the fitness of things, exacts
lematural grace be always giv-
ational nature. It is our own
, already clearly enough insin-
that, although the completion
fection of the universe does ex-
a supernatural order should be
ted, it does not exact the eleva-
all xatioDal species or individ-

uals to this order. This opmion ap-
pears to be more in accordance with
the obvious sense of the d.crees just
cited. It is also the opinion of St.
Thomas, and, after him, of the more
prevalent school of theology. St
Thomas thus expresses himself upon
this point : ^ Poterat Deus, a princi-
pio quando homitiem condidit, etiam
alium hominem ex limo terras forma-
re, quem in conditione suaa natures re-
liuqueret, ut scilicet mortalis et passi-
bilis esset et pugnam concupiscentis
ad rationem sentiens, in quo nihil hu-
manas naturas derogaretur, quia hoc
ex principiis natune couscquitur ; nou
tamcn iste defectus in eo rationem
culpas et poenas habuisset, quia non
per voluntatem iste defectus causatus
esset." " God could have formed,
from the beginning when he created
man, also another man from the dust
of the earth, whom he might have Icfl
in the condition of his own nature, that
is, so that he would have bee:i mortal
and passible, and would have felt the
conflict of concupiscence against rea-
son, in which there would have been
nothing derogatory to human nature,
because this follows from the princi-
ples of nature ; nevertheless this defect
in him would not have had the quality
of sin and punishment, because this
defect would not have been caused by
the wiU."*

The sanctifying grace conferred
upon Adam is very clearly shown, ac-
cording to this view, to have been a
pure and perfectly gratuitous boon
from Gk)d, to which human nature, as
such, could have no claim whatever,
even of congruity.

The nature of the probation of the
father of mankind is now easily ex-
plained, lie received a gratuitous
gift on conditions, and these conditions
were the matter of his probation. Our
scope and limits do not admit of a
minute discussion of the particular
circumstances of the trial and fall of
Adam in Paradise. The point to be
considered is the relation in which

* % Srattnt., Dirt. Sl, vk 1,ul.Sad a

PrgLUms of the Aff€*

Adam stood to all mankind hU poster-
ity in Ills trial, trans^essioo, and con-
demnation. The Catholic dogma of
faith on this liead is clearly defined
and unmifltakable. The whole human
race was tried, foil, and was condemn-
ed, in the trial, fall, and condemnation
ot Adam. It is needless to cite again
the passages of Holy Scripture and
the deciBions of the church which e3-
tabli^h this fundamental doctrine of
Christianity. The only question to be
di?4cu?3ed is, What is the real sense and
meaning of the doctrine ? How did
all mankind sin in Adam, and by his
trun3<rre«sioii incur the condemnation
of death ? What is the miture of that
orij^lnal sin in which we ai'e born ?

One theory is that the sin of Adam
id arbitrarily imputed to his jjosterity.
Ah a punishment for this imputed sin,
they are born depraved, with an irre-
sistible propensity to sin, and under the
doom of eternal misery. The state-
ment of this theory is its best refutation.
Very few hold it now, and we may
safely leave to Protestant writers tlio
task of demonstrating its absurdity.

Another theory is, that al! human
wills were included in the will of Ad-
am, so that they all concurred with
his will in ihe original rransgression.*
We find some dtfliculty in compre-
hending this statement. Did we all
have a distinct exist mice, and enjoy a
deliberative and decisive vote when
tfie important question of human des-
tiny was decided ? If so, the unanim-
ity of the judgment, and the total ob-
livion which has fallen upon us all^ re-
specting our share in it and our whole
subsequent exist^^nce, until a very vp-
ecnt period, arc very remarkable phe-
nomena wiiich we have ne\'er seen
ftdequately accounted for. The only
other alternative is that of indistinct
existence or virtual existence. That
is, that the jKiwer of generating soul??
was in A<liim, and that all human
fiouls are actually derived from his
eoul by generation. Suppose they are.

• We rtttt Ihf r<?Ail*:r to thti urtfvm^nU of C»n
4uem in Mri, Sicvwc't Mlutitrr'i Woolnf, fatr «

dcoi C^ltlaittlc dvctiine of ortgluAl i^

A father who hai losl ftji orpi m t
limb does not necessarily trananll dua
defect to hia posterity. Even tf W
does transmit some defect wbieli be
has contracted by his own faoU iHk \k
son, that son is not to blame for It. If
the principle nf all souU wa^ in Ad
am, virtually, their personality, wluch
is the principle of "
mences only with i
ence, Per^onahty i :
An individual soul i
cate with another in il
identity, from which !i'
of acts, all acc'
ity of moral nL.
notion of the deriTation of -
from another, *>r from a coidi
reservoir, is, however, one peHtcH^
inconceivable, and contrary totjic
est principles of phito^>by.
stanee Is simple and indr
Spirit, which is the mo9t peHecl
stance, contains, then* ^fa

the most manifest ;>oo

notion of cumfjositigfi, rrK»iutidiv
vision, or se (mm lion ot part**
subsliuicc of Adum*s soul wni
pletely in his own individual ti
giiiicG and will The t
other souls deriving tK
from his soul is therefore wli
out raejiniog. Tliere is no '
ble way in which spirit GEtn
spirit, except by creat'On* fta
which created spirit is ineoflipei

Tfiere remains, therefore, Qa\fi
doctrine, which is that of O ' '
ology, *hat the human speetct H
po reality (»ro|jagated by tnoant of
eration, aiid was therKforp, in
spect only, virtually in Adam s
eacli individual doul w '
credited by God, and oooMSi iaHlii
generic an ' '« * ri^laticifis rfli^

manity iht inion in one lii^

gral perso! h the body. Bm*

then, can r idual soul bei^flf

involved in <»rt;rit»iii ato f Uoct 64
create it sinful ? This ettmoc be; irf
if it could it would not be ibm Ml^
Adam, or the nin of the tmct^ kil ^
own personal stiu TW •oul as il i^i
ironn the hand of Qod cftnoot be ^

J^hlemt of the Age.

627

ftct. The only possible sappo-
^maining is, that the sonl con-
\\n from contact or union with
dj. Here the Calvinist, the
tsty or an J other who maintains
riginal sin consists in positive
ation of the souFs essence, or
itnal moral perversity, or de-
ition of the will to sin, is in a
1 where he cannot move a step
1. How can soul be comipted
Y 'i How has the innocent soul
^ to be thrust into a body by
it must be polluted? These
ns will never receive an answer.
U any credible or rational meth-
indicating the doctrine that ail
^ bom totally and positively
ed, or with a nature in any re-
essentially evil, on account of
§ sin, ever be discovered. The
e is utterly incredible and un-
lie, and will no doubt ere long
I place only in the history of
rors.

way is now clear for the ex-
] of the Catholic doctrine re-
g the mutual relations of Adam
I posterity in the original pro-
trial, and fall of the human
nmediately afler its creation,
probation of Adam, in which
man race was included, must
understood as including the
personal probation either of
' or of his descendants. His
rdbation lasted during his life-
nd 80 does that of each indi'
man. Had he been faithful in
irticnlar trial which is related
first chapter of Genesis, it is
le that, although the special
;e8 whof^ perpetuation depend-
it would certainly have
scared to the race, he himself
have had a longer personal
So also, if the progeny of Ad-
i been confirmed in the per-
possession of the privileges of
iie\'al state, each individual of
lan race would have had a pro-
of his owi^ affecting his own
I destiny alone. Although each
» would have been conceived

and bom in the state of original grace
and integiity, as the Blessed Virgin
was by a special privilege, as soon as
the actual exercise of reason became
completely developed, a period of pro-
bation would have commenced, in
which we should have been liable to
fail, as we arc now after receiving grace
through baptism.

The probation of the human race in
Acfeim was, therefore, a special proba-
tion, on which the possession in per-
petuity of certain supernatural privi-
leges, freely and gratuitously conceded
to the race, was alone dependent. The
merely personal consequences of the
sin of Adam and Eve affected them-
selves alone individually. That is, the
guilt of an actual transgression with
the necessary personal consequences
following fix>m it attached to them
alone, and we have nothing to do with
it, any more than with any other sins
committed by our intermediate pro-
genitors. The father of the human
race did not act, however, in a merely
individual capacity in this transaction.
He was the federal head and repre-
sentative of the race. A trast was
committed to him in behalf of all man-
kind, and this trust was the great gift
of original sancdty and justice, the
high dignity of supernatural affiliation
to God, the glorious title to the king-
dom of heaven. By his sin he forfeit-
ed this gift in trast, both for himself
as an individual, and also for his
descendants who were to have inherit-
ed it from him. There is no ground
for asking the question, why it follow-
ed that Adam, having fallen, should
transmit a fallen nature by generation
to his posterity. This question is
only asked on the supposition that
fallen nature is a nature essentially
changed and depraved, whereas it is
really a nature which has fallen from
a supernatural height back to its own
proper condition. With all due re
spect to tlie eminent writers who have
attempted to answer this question, we
must be allowed to say that we cannot
attach any definite meaning to their an-
answer. Adam, they say, having a AU-

828

ProhUmi of the A^e*

en nature, could only Iransmk the na-
'ture wbirh he had. AH humanity wm
i In him when he sinnetl, and ihofeforc
I liumanity us p^eneric having fallen in-
to sin, each individual who part iLMj>at<?8
1 'by conce[>tion in generic humanity
participates in its ein^ or is conceived
in origitial ftin. This Ianguag»3 may
be used and undereloixi in a true
Bcnse ; but in itd literal sense, tmd as
it is very generally understood, it has
\ no meaning. It i^ derived from the
I €xtrava«^unt and unmtelligible reahsm
[bf Wilham of Chatnpeaux, and some
[tother scboolmeD, according to which
I humanity as a genus has a real and
[positive entity, like the i^nl annual
\in se of Pluto, from whom all particu-
lar animals receive their entity. These
I notion:^ have long since become obso-
jlete, and it is uaeless to refute them,
[The human genus or species was
[ Completely in Adam, but it was nol
rdistinct fix*m his individuality; mlher
lit w&s completely in his imlividuality
leonstituting it in its own generic or
p«peeific grade of existence^ 5is the in*
dividual! ty of a man. liutuanity is
also completely in every other human
individual. This htimanily, constitut-
ing the specific essence of Adain* as a
man, was idenlicnl with his extslenee,
for existence is only metaphysical
essence reduced to act. It could not
he essentially changed without de*
stroying his human existenrM?, What*
ever b contained in humanitits must
have remained in him after the fall,
otherwise he would no longiT have re-
mained a man, or indeed have con-
tinued to exist at all. It Is only this
humtmHas^ or B|>ecillc essence of hu-
munn ature. that Adam had any nat-
ural power to rep^J<luce by genera-
tion. He could not hav»^ lost the pow-
er of transmitting it by the fall^ except
by lo-^ing altogether the power of re-
producing his species. The iinrnedi*
ale, physical effect of genei*ation is
merely the production of iJie Ufe-!»enii,
from which the body is developed iinder
the formative action of a soal, cre-
ated immediately by God. The only
depravation or cofrupiioa d* nature,

therefore, which w ph*
or which can be ti
by u necessary la%v in.ju vr^
ti'ju of nature in Adam, i^ ii (
or degeneracy in tliia
through which a defeclirisi
ate body is producaL Tbl
has ttcf^a lon^ v^
church. It is. njoreoTetv \
science. The hnman
feet as an n id alllia

is accidental I ncyint

there is no generic or sf
acy of the race from ila {
But Buppoeing tlmt a
were the necessary
Adutn*8 sin, a defecttivo i
be* The paj^nt does
the citation of the soul i>f hh i
except as an occustonaJ caun
creates tins soul, and he can
a human soul witliout
conformity to the inetiipb^i
type, of soul in his own iJ ~
ioTi' having the essence
plelely in itself. How J
infusion of this so ?! irtto i
is plivsioally dr
worthy of that <
God and of th.i
worthy of intrin.^ a

its union with the body I

There is no law in tmlany I
of which Adam myst or i
mit anything essentially
human natut^ befonj! the i)x\\i
tially less after the fiUl.
which he was en titled lo
privileges or gifts additk>aaJ I
on condition of hi^ fiiMltiiicI
of God^ ^ . ^ —

fore a I

laws whicii wn fo

with their i jpcrly,

nobility, or \ liijiry

crown. Til' , r^giei

felted, by the crime of At) indl^
whom they are veatcnL for hk
for his pijstcrity. They ina|
feited for post4?Tity, bccotiM}
not natural rights. In tliei
ncr, the suficrnfi '•"-*' -*f>j
on Adam were lb: li

by his sin, l/lx^ij

Protkmi of^tht Age.

529

itnral rights, or dMta naiurm^
utaitous gifts to which Adam's
ity had do hereditary right, ex-
hat derived from the sovereign
sion of God, and conceded only
Miditional manner. This condi-
right could only be perfected
I obedience of Adam to the pre-
rf the Ahnighty forbidding him
of the fruit of the tree of know-
of good and evil. As he fail-
obey this precept, his posterity
acquired a perfect right to the
fsupematural grace through him.
irtuc, therefore, of our descent
lim, we possess nothing but hu-
Dature and those things which
dly belong to it ; we are bom in
ate in which Adam would have
placed at the beginning if Grod
reated him in the* state of pure

) do not stand, therefore, before
)y virtue of our conception and
Tom the first parents of mankind,
J attitude of personal offenders
ODtary transgressors of his law.
ssential relation to Gk>d as ration-
atures is not broken. Our nature
sntially good, and capable of at-
% all the good which can be evol v-
m its intrinsic principles; that
natural knowledge, virtue, and
f. That which is immediately
d by God must be essentially
A spirit is essentially intelligence
ill, and therefore good in respect
th, or capable of thinking the
and wiUing the good. Moreover,
certain philosophical truth that
God creates a spirit he must
it in act, or that the activity of
irit is coeval with its existence,
rst act or state of a spirit, as it
les all reflection, deliberation, or
, and flows necessarily from tlie
re act of God himself, is deter-
bv him, and must therefore be
'The acts which follow, either
necessarily from the first, or are
oduct of free deliberation. In
rat case, they are necessarily
and in Uie second they may be
stherwise they would be neces-

VOL. IV. 84

sarily evil, which is contrary to the
supposition that they are free. The hu-
man soul being in its essence spirit,
and incapable of being corrupted by
the body, must thei*efore be essentially
good at the moment when it attains the
full exercise of reason and of the fac-
ulty of free choice. If so, it is capa-
ble of apprehending by its intelligence
and choosing by its will that which is
good, and cannot, therefore, come into
the state of actual sin or become a per-
sonal transgressor except by a free
and deliberate purpose to violate the
eternal law, with full power to the
contrary. It may exercise this power
to the contrary by a correct judgment,,
a right volition, and thus attaui the
felicity which is the necessary conse*
quence of acting rationally and con-
scientiously. So far as this is possible
to mere unassisted nature, it may con-
tinue to put forth a series of acts of this
kind during the whole period of its
earthly existence. That is to say, it
is capable of attaining all the good
which can be evolved from its intrinsic
principles, or all natural knowledge,
virtue, and felicity. This is equivalent
to saying, that it can have a natural
knowledge and love of God, as is af-
firmed by the best theologians with the
sanction of the church. For Pius V.
has condemned the following proposi-
tion, the d4th of Baius : ** Distinctio
ilia duplicis amoris, naturalis videlicet
quo Deus amatur ut auctor naturse, et
gratuiti quo Deus amatur ut bcatifica-
tor, vana est et commentitia et ad illu-
dendum sacris litteris et plurimis ve-
terum testimoniis excogitata." " The
distinction of a twofold love, namely,
natural, by which Grod is loved as the
author of nature, and gratuitous, by
which God is loved as the beatifier, is
vain and futile, and invented for the
purpose of evading that which is
taught by the Holy Scriptures and by
many testimonies of the ancient writ-
ers."* It would be easy to multiply
proofs that the doctrine of man's capa-
bility of moral virtue, from the intriu*

* Denilger*s Soohlrld., pw 800^

580

PrMemi of the Ag€.

sic principles of liis nature, is the gen-
uine Catholic doctrine.* ThiB is not
necessary, how^ever, at present

We proceed to another point, name-
ly, How it is that mankind can be said
to be born in original sin, when they
are innocent of all personal and actual
sin at the time of birth ? The state in
which Adam's posterity are born, and
which is denominated the state of orig-
inal sin, considered subjectively, is a
state of privation of supernatural grace
and integrity. If man had been created
for a natural destiny, this state of in-
hability to the supernatural would not
have been a state of sin. If he had
been created in the state in which he
is now bom, as a preparatory state to
the state of grace, to be endowed at a
subsequent period with supernatural
gifts, it would not have been a state
of sm. Entitively it would have been
the same state as that in which he is
now born. It would not have been a
state of sin, because the state of sin re-
ceives its denomination from a volun-
tary transgression which procluces it.
The particular notion of sin is an
aversion from God as the supr(»mc
good produced by the voluntary elec-
tion of an inferior good in his place.
The posterity of Adam are bom in a
state of habitual aversion from God as
the supreme good in the sui)ematural
order, which is the consequence of the
original sin of Adam. Since they vir-
tually possessed a right to be bom in
the state of gnice and integrity, which
was forfeited by his sin, the state of
privation in which they are Iwm, rt»la-
tively to their original ideal condition
acd to the transgression by which they
were degrad«*d from it, is properly de-
nominated a state of sin. 'Phis is in-
curred by each individual soul through
ita connection with the body which de-
scends from our first parents by gen-
eration, because it is this infusion into
a human bo<ly which constitutes it a
member of the human race. As a
member of the human nice, and by
virtue of his descent fn)na Adam, each

• 8e« AiplnOooi of Nature, by Rev. L T. Ueeker,

individual roan participates
generic relations of the race,
had not sinned, he would
ceived by inheritance from hi
dignity and great i>ossessioi
mitted to him through the 1
the case is, he is bom disi
There is no injustice or unki;
this ; because the rights wh
been forfeited were not rights
in the concession of rational
itself, but rights gratuitously
on certain conditions, and be
personal blame is imputed wl
exists. The illustration so <
ployed by theologians of a i
who has suffered attainder is
apt to the case. Ilis j>osterity
under an attainder, which ii
law corres|)onds to original s
the divine law. and are thus ]
a state of [>rivation ; ndritivo!^
condition of nobility which wa-
ly hereditary in the family ; I
in itself is an honest condition
eye of the law, their father
makes them incapable of th
leges of nobility, but it do«*s nm
them of the common rights ot
subjects.

So the children of Adam, on
of his sin, inherit a disability
sess the nobility of the state <
and to inherit the kingdom of
Tliis disability is inhertMit in
son of each one, and therefor
CHique propriumJ* It is a se|
from Crod incurred by the tn
sion of Adam, who repn\«en
human race in his trial, and tl
is tmly anJ pn>j)eriysin. It is
tion of grace which is the sui>ei
lite of tlie soul, an 1 is thorefoi
erly called death, or - morg <
The ** reatus ciifpa" is the ol
of l)eing bom in a .stale of relati
radatiiMK and the ** reatits pai
obligation of undergoing the c
suifcrings, and death which b(
the stat<» of des|K)i!ed nature,
as submitting to the senttMK*e o
sion from the kingdom of Gkn
it, human nature has been i
into something worse as to «•

Problems of the Age.

531

in detenus mulatur quoad
animam^ because it ia now
of integrity, immortality, and
ig grace. Nevertheless this
isaentlally the same with that
ould have been the state of
e had been created in the state
lature. Man in the state of
iture differs from man in the
pure nature, as Perrone says,
nudatus from nudo, one de-
)m one always nude. This is
sin, which consists formally,
lomas teaches, in the privation
ying grace and the other gra-
;ifts perfecting nature which
[ on it. Mankind, therefore,
1 of Adam, have simply fallen
:he state of pure nature, and
I with those attributes and
only which are contained in
aturc by virtue of its intrinsic
\. To understand, therefore,
tion, capabilities, and ultimate
»f man, apart from the grace
mes through the Redeemer,
simply lo inquire into the es-
these intrinsic principles, and
what man is, simply as man,
an do, and what is the end he
1 by his earthly life.
IS to his rational nature, is in
t grade of rational creatures,
nder very favorable circum-
lis intelligence is very im-
developed, and so far as it
ped it is chiefly employed in
J his merely exterior and
. Under the most favorable
nces his j)rogres3 is slow, his
)f contemplating purely in-
and spiritual objects weak
jd. As to his body, he is also
delicate, and naturally liable
Moreover, there is in his
)n, as a being composed of
body, a certain contmriety
il impulses, one set of im-
dining him to rational good,
to sensible or animal good,
inferior a limals, he is capa-
improvement of his species
irtain pojnt which cannot be
also liable to a degeneracy

which brings, him down to a state lit-
tie above that of the brutes, and even
to idiocy. There are indications
enough in his soul of a latent ca*
pacity for a much higher and more
exalted state, to make it certain that
his present condition is one of merely
inchoate existence, and that he is des-
tined to a future life in which these
latent capacities will be developed in
a more perfect corporeal organization.
The great difficulty of forming an
ideal conception of the state in which
he would have been constituted, had
he been left to his merely natural de-
velopment, consists in the fact that we
have no human subject to study ex-
cept man as he actually is, that is,
under a supernatural providence from
the beginning. The actual develop-
ment of human nature has taken place
under the influence of supernatural
grace, and we cannot discriminate in
human history the operation of natural
causes from those which are super-
natural. There are three principal
hypotheses respecting the possible de-
velopment of pure nature which may
be sustained with more or less plausi-
bility. The first is, that the human
race, beginning in its perfection of type
as a species, but without any revela-
tion of language, or any instruction in
natural theology, morals, or science,
would have remained always in the
same state in which it was created, with-
out any intellectual or moral progress.
According to this view, the present
state of man on earth would have been
a mere stage of existence, which could
have no ulterior end, except the pro-
duction of a spocies destined to begin
its higher life in a future state. The
second hypothesis is, that the human
race, beginning from the same point of
departure, might have progressed slow-
ly, through very long periods of time,
to a high limit of civilization, know-
ledge, virtue, and natural religion.
The third is, that a kind of natural
revelation, inchiding a positive system
of religion, morals, and science, would
have been requisite ; in a word, that
human society must have been placed

032

JVoUniM of (he Age.,

at fiTBt, by the immediate intervention
of the Creator, in the state of civiliza-
tion, and conducted in its course by a
continuance of the same intervention.
We have little room, however, for any-
thing beyond conjecture in this matter.
The only point we are anxious to es-
tablish is, that the state in which we
are now bom is not one intrinsically
evil ; that it is not one derogatory to
human nature as such ; that it is not
one in which God might not create
man in consistency with his sanctity
and goodness.

This point is established on sound
theolc^cal and philosophical princi-
ples ; and from these principles it fol-
lows that all the phenomena of man
which are referrible to his original fall
arc the natural consequence of his
human constitution, and not evidences
of a positive, innate depravity. Ho
is a weak, frail, inconstant crea-
ture, easily led away by the senses
and passions, liable to fall into many
errors and sins, but he is not an objcrct
of loathing and abhorrence to hla Crea-
tor, or an outcast from his love. lie
has in him all the primary elements
of natural virtue, the germ from which
a noble creature can be developed.
Nevertheless, altliough his natural
condition is one which is not deroga-
tory to himself or his Creator, it
seems to cry out for the supernatural.
Its actual weakness and imperfection,
coupled with its late it capacities for
u high development, mark it as being,
what it is, the most litting subject for
tlie grace of God ; and indicate that
it was created chiefly to exemplify in
the most signal m.inner the srratuitous
love and bounty of the Cn»a(or. It is
only in the idea of tlie supernatural
order that we can find the iidcquate
explication and solution of all the
problems relaiin«j to the destiny of
man. For that order he was creat<*d
by an absolute, not a conditional de-
cree of (rod. The fulfilment of that
decree was not risked on the issue of
Adam*8 probation. According to our
viewj^the creation of man was only
the inchoatioQ of the incarnation of the

Eternal Word in human nab
the decree of the incamalii
absolute^ the elevation of be
ture was necessary and mus
caciously secured. The fal
from original grace could not
hinder lU After the sin of J
human race had still a sup
destiny, and was under the si
ral order of Providence. T
decree to confer grace on
not abrogated, but only the
mode under which the gnu
be conferred were changed
over, by this change, the bu
was, on the whole, a gainer,
into a better and more favor
tion for attaining its destiny
was a reason both for t!ie ori
stitution of man in the grace
and also for the changt* of
stitution which followed up3
sin. By the original grant
God showed to mankind hi?
cent liberality and gocxl-will.
tliem also an ideal which has
imperishably in their memo
state of i)erf».^ction, and left
odor of paradise to cheer tli
their rugged road of labor
By the withdrawal of that
brought them under a dispfi
mercy, in which their condicic
humble and painful, but s
more advantageous for gai
highest merit.

St. Francis de Sales says :
de la redemption vaut c«.*nt
que Tetatde la justice original
state of redemption is a hand
preferable to the state of orii
tice."* The church herself, iii
lime hymn Exuffet, bn^aks ou
cxcLimiirion : *• O certi* nee
Ada; peccatum ; O felix cu!
tantum et talem habere mi
demptorem I" '• O certain'
sary sin of Adam ; O hap|
which merited to know suol
great a liedeemerl" We
reason to latuent our lost pai

• ThU thonght ha^ he^a bmntirully <
yir. Sifup^uii iu Homv EMAn ou Orizliul
ed iQ Tlie JUmbler.

J^ Christmas I¥se. 63S

) moam over the fall of our first par- of the mystery o. redemption must be

[its. Our new birth in Christ is far postponed, however, for a future num-

etter than that ancient inheritance ber.
trfeitcd in Eden. The consideration

MY CHRISTMAS TREE.

The Christmas logs were blazing bright, the house was all aglow,
Five little stockings brimming full were hanging in a toyt ;
The balls of golden, silver, red, upon the Christmas tree,
Like fire-fiies glancing through the green, were shining merrily,
And gifts for May and Josey, and for Maggie, Elate, and Will,
From bending top to sturdy root, the swaying branches fill ;
And I, my labors all complete, sat watching through the night,
For well I knew that busy feet, before the morning-light,
Wonld patter, patter down the stairs in merry Christmas glee,
And warm and bright as love could make, must their first welcome be.
The while I mused upon their joy, with eyes fixed on the door.
The fairest form I ere had seen glided the threshold o'er —
-A sweet and gentle maiden " waxen little past the child,"
Jind close upon her steps a man of visage grave and mild.
As the fair maiden nearer drew, I saw her small hands prest
The loveliest new-bom baby that e*cr slept on mortal breast —
Albeit, &yQ fair little buds had blossomed on mine own,
Such winning grace of perfectness mine heart had never known.
Adown, in sudden rapture caught, I fell on bended knee.
For Jesus and Saint J^Iary and Saint Joseph were with me !
The Maiden Mother gently bent, and in my trembling hands
Laid little baby-Jesus, wrapt up in his swaddling bands.
** Give rest and food and shelter unto him who for your sake

Hath reft himself of all things," thus the Maiden Mother spake ;
**Each Christmas eve we, journeying, as once in Bethlehem,
At every Christian door-step ask for shelter, as of them
Who in my mother's maiden home had room for all save him
Before whose throne of living light bow down the seraphim.
And oft times now, as on that night, rejected, we depart.
As though they were Judean inns, from many a Christian heart.
With warmth and light and merry feasts ye hail his natal-day,
But who have place for Jesus Christ who in the manger lay ?
Moettimes the doors are closely baiTcd, the fire-light is grown dim,
And few who watch as now you watch, keep watch or ward for him,'*

Her tones were tender, sweet, and low, but through the crust of years
They found the blessed, blessed fount of humble, contrite tears ;
And as they overflowed mine eyes, and plashed upon his head,
The baby woke to life and warmth, who seemed so cold and dead ;
And pointing where a little gift for " Christ's poor" lowly lay
Beneath the tree so richly bowed, he smiled, and passed away.
Ah 1 me, how little seemed the share that I had laid aside
To give to him who for our sake was bom and cmcified !
ffe held back naught, the last red drop flowed out for you and me :
Oh I surely he should have the best on every Christmas tree.

Geneyiete Sales.

6a4

l%e LUa$ Bird$ on Chrulma$ Dag.

Tnmslated firom the German.

THE LITTLE BIRDS ON CHRISTMAS DAT.

On holy Christmas momlng there
was a grand assemblage of little birds
behind the elder-tree yonder which
stands between the court-yard and the
garden, flanked on one side by the
bani and on the other by heaps of
grain that had found no shelter in the
granary — so rich had been the bless-
ings of the Lord I

The sparrow with his house and
generation was very fully represented
in the meeting ; and all who belonged
to his family puffed out their feathers
and sat looking as if something vexa-
tious had befallen them.

The lark, sitting between the fur-
rows in the field hard by, raised him-
self up a little way now and again,
warbling a short kyrie or gloria as hb
thoughts came and went.

Finches and goldliammers were
there in great spirits, as usual; and
the blackbird perched now inside the
courtrwall, now on the outside ; then
he flew down to the brook, ducked
down and up again, flew up into the
tree with the other birds, and praised
the cold- water-cure, which makes one
feel right fresh and joyful as nothing
else can.

Ravens and crows and the rest of
the grab-alls, who are for ever finding
wliat no one has lost, crowded close
together on the grain-stacks in deep
and loud discussion

But the sparrow began to bewail
his fate thus : ^^ I have been sadly dis-
turbed in my niglifs rest, for before
daybreak all the bells in the steeples
be.5an to ring as if for fire. I flew
out into tlie darkness ; and all around
the liouses looked bright, as if they
were on fire within. Many tiny can-
dies were lighted, and the trees on
which they burned were covered with
all kinds of fruit, such as I never have

seen together on one tree
enjoy nothing of all this,
are bare enough, and hav
leaves to screen us from tl
cold. We shall starve t
freeze, when once food beco
and the cold more piercin<

But the lark in the fiek
up a few worms which a
tossed out with the earth
blackbird helped her to cl
little worms, and that was t
fast

The shepherd drove

through the narrow path, n

bushes on each side, and

berry briers and wild-rose t

had heard the birds^ complai

cd their branches across tl

that the little sheep lefl loc

upon them, some more, son]

never enough to do them

But the birds were behind

gathered up the wool and c:

their homes, in the knot-hol

or crevices of walls or hoUr

earth, and there they gre

and warmer. Then, as ihev

the wool, red hips, which th

made sweet and soft, peepj-

they ate them with joyful he

Again rang out the bells

er and steeple ; the houses

ed, and the family came for

servants first, then sons a

ters, and, to close up the \

the housewife and the farmc

** Father,' said the eldes

will fare ill with our core

the field if, before going to c

do not shoot in among the

gentry yonder, who have ton

coverings already, and will &

their way in among the u

grain. The magpies wtllii

where they have not sown. '

BaraUoi and L

685

5 from the whole neighborhood,
would I give them a few lead-
3 for food, and silence their
ng for ever.''

no means," replied the farmer,
lot shall be fired during this
Christmas season-— on thegra-
lirthday of him who overthrew
the tables of the mcJney-chan-
kd made a scourge of cords to
lit both bujer and seller from
pie, but only said to those who
res, 'Take them hence.* He
; blame the poor little doves ;
ver, on this day, when dumb
^ve up to him their manger
;radle becausi3 men found no
)r him in the inn, never shall
ature find death in my fields
sak^ of a few blades of grass
els of grain."

the farmer's wife had already
back, and one of the lads was,
command, strewing a whole
f grain before the house-firont.
erously did he scatter the food
doves and poultry, that there
ough and to spare for their
)r8 on the elder-tree, and mag-
. raven had a fair share without
myied by hens or disturbed by

men. Thus in the court-yard was
there also a little of that ^ peace on
earth" of which angels sang one
Christmas night upon the plains of
Bethlehem. Nor did the farmer lack
anything in hay-loft or granary be-
cause the little birds of heaven had
been fed from his table that blessed
Christmas morning.

Remember this : on Christmas feed
the poor birds before thy door, and if
thou seest neither lark nor blackbird^
nor yet finches, gold-hanmiers, nor
tomtits, then think of those who have
no feathers, of poor human creatures.
Forget not that the angel of the Lord
said to the shepherds : ^ You will find
the child wrapped in swaddling-clothes,
and lying in a manger." Seek« out the
swaddling-clothes of poverty, and if
thou walkest by that light which rose
over Bethlehem, then shalt thou find
in those swaddling-clothes and in works
of mercy the little child Jesus I

Mark this: if thou wouldst be
happy, then must thou make others
happy I

Remember : because Jesus came to
the poor, therefore shouldst thou go to
the poor.

BARABBAS AND I.

BABABBAS.

•* Strange that the Jews should set me free,
And let this Jesus die for me !
I have their brethren robbed and slain :
He brought their dead to life again."

" Strange, surely, that the ungrateful Jews
' Should thee in place of Jesus choose :
Tet stranger far it is that he
Should choose to die to set me free."

686

A^hroUteg.

From the Popular Science Rerlcw.

AEROLITES.

BT TOWNSUEND M. HALL, F.O.S.

Meteoric stones, or aerolites, as
they are generally called (from two
Greek words, cier and. lithos^ signify-
ing " air-stones"), may be defined as
soUd masses consisting principally of
pure iron, nickel, and several other
metals, sometimes containing also an
admixture of augite, olivine, and horn-
blende, which, from time to time, at
irregular intervals, haVe fallen upon
the surface of the earth from above.

Other designations, such as ^' fire-
balls and thunder-bolts," have been
popularly applied to these celestial
masses, the former denoting their usual
fiery appearance, whilst the latter has
reference to the extreme suddenness of
their descent

Sliooting stars also, altliough they
are not accompanied by the fall of
any solid matter upon the earth, are
generally placed in the same category,
since they are supposed to be aerolites
which pass (comparatively speaking)
very near our earth, and are visible
from it by night ; at the same time
their distance from us, varying as it
does from four to two hundred and
forty miles and upward, is in most
instances too great to allow of their
being drawn down by the attractive
power possessed by the earth. Like
comets and eclipses, these celestial
phenomena in former times were uni-
versally regarded with feelings of the
greatest awe and superstition ; and in
Eastern countries especially, where
the fall of a meteoric stone was sup-
po8ed< to be the immediate precursor
of some important public event, or
national calamity, the precise date of
each descent was carefully recorded.
In China, for example, such reports
readi back to the year G44 before our

era ; and M. Biot has found in
tronomical section of some of t1
ancient annals of tliat empire
falls of aerolites recorded as
taken place between the yea
B.C. and 333 after Christ, whi
Greek and Roman authors i
only four such occurrences dur
same period. Even now, in t
of science and universal kno
aerolites can scarcely be n
without a certain degree of
Indeed, four or five cases have
red in which [lersons have beei
by the^ ; in another instance,
villages in India were set on
the fall of a meteoric stone ; ai
by no means a pleasant subject
flection that such a catastn)[ih<3
happen anywhere and at any m
e8|>ecially when we remembe
these stones, although not quite
descent, are always, more or lo:
heated state ; and sometimes
that even after the lapse of six
they could not be touched wi
punity.

The first fall of meteoric sto
record appears to have taken
about the year (joA: b.c., wh
cording to a passage in Livy, a j
of stones fell on the Alban U
far distant from Rome. The i
chronolojgical order is mentioi
several writers, such as Dioge
Apollonia, Plutarch, and Plin
described by them as a great
the size of two millstones, and
in weight to a full wagon-loa
fell about the year 467 b,c., at
Fotamos, on the Hellespont, an
up to the days of Pliny, four ce
after its fall, it continued to be
ject of curiosity and specolaUoi

ASroKies.

587

e of the first centary we
1 any account or notice of
but although it has been
f for upward of eighteen
ITS, the eminent Humboldt
3 of his works, that not-
r all previous failures to
t, he does not wholly re-
hope that even after such
)le lapse of time, this Thra-
ic mass, which it would be
to destroy, may be found
*ially since the region in
. has now become so easy
European travellers,
descent of any particular
took place at Ensisheim in
re an aerolite fell on No-
, 1492, just at the time
Cmperor Maximilian, then
t Romans, happened to be
nt of engaging with the
ly. It was preserved as a
3 cathedral at Ensisheim,
beginning of the French
when it was conveyed to
Library of Colmar, and* it
jserved there among the

fears the shower of aero-
■ell in April, 1803, at L'Ai-
nandy, may well rank as
straordinary descent upon
large fire-ball had been
few moments previously,
ghborhood of Caen and
lere the sky was perfectly
londless. At L'Aiglc no
of light was visible, and
assumed instead the form
black cloud, consisting of
h suddenly broke up with
xplosion, followed several
I peculiar rattling noise.
aX the time of their descent
it not red, and smoked visi-
Qumber which were after-
cted within an elliptical
iring from six to seven
ogth by three in breadth,
ariously estimated at from
e thousand. They ranged
om two dj-achms up to sev-
n half pounds. The French

government immediately deputed M.
Biot, the celebrated naturalist and
philosopher, to proceed to the spot,
for the express purpose of collecting
the authentic facts concerning a phe-
nomenon which, until that time, had
almost universally been treated as an
instance of popular superstition and
credulity. His conclusiye report was
the means of putting an end to all
scepticism on the subject, and since
that date the reality — ^not merely the
possibility— of such occurrences has
no longer been contested.

Leaving out, for the present, innu-
merable foreign instances which might
be quoted, we must now glance rapidly
at a few of the most noticeable ex-
amples of the fall of meteoric stones
which have taken place in England.
The earliest which appears on record
descended in Devonshire, near Sir
George Chudleigh's house at Stretch-
leigh, in the parish of Ermington,
about twelve miles from Plymouth.
The circumstance is thus related by
Westcote, one of the quaint old Dev-
onshire historians :

" In some part of this manor (Stretchleigh),
there fell from above — I cannot gay from
heaven — a stone of twenty-three pounds
weight, with a great and fearful noise in
falling; first it was heard like unto thun-
der, or rather to be thought the report of
some great ordnance, cannon, or culverin;
and as it descended, so did the noise lessen,
at last when it cume to the earth to the
height of the report of a pctcmcl, or pistol
It was for matter like unto a stone singed,
or half-burned for lime, but being lai^r
described by a richer wit, I will forbear to
enlarge on it^'^

The "richer wit'* here alluded to
was in all probability the author of a
pamphlet published at the time, which
further describes this aerolite as hav-
ing fallen on January 10th, 1623, in
an orchard, near some men who were
planting trees. It was buried in the
ground three feet deep, and its dimen-
sions were three and a half feet long,
two and a half wide, and one and a
half thick. The pamphlet also states
that pieces broken from off it were in
the possession of many of the neic^

688

ASroltiei.

boring gentry. We may here remark
that no specimen of this stone is at
present known to be in existence, and
that although living in the county
where it fell, we have hitherto failed
in tracing any of the fragments here
referred to. A few years later, in
August, 1G28, several meteoric stones,
weighing from one to twenty-four
pounds, fell at Hatford, in Berkshire ;
and in the month of May, 1680, sev-
eral arc said to> have fallen in the
neighborhood of London.

The total number of aerolitic de-
scents which up to this present time
have been observed to take place in
Great Britain and Ireland is twenty,
of which four occurred in Scotland,
and four in In'land. The largest and
most noticeable of all these fell on
December 13th, 1795, near Wold Cot-
tage, in the parish of Thwing, t^ast
Riding of Yorkshire. Its descent
was witnessed by two persons; and
when the stone was dug up, it was
found to have penetrated through no
less than eighteen inches of soil and
hard chalk. It originally weighed
about fifty-six pounds, but that portion
of it preserved in the British Museum
is stated in the official catalogue to
weigh forty-seven pounds nine ounces
and fifly-three grains — just double the
weight of the Devonshire aerolite.

When we come to inquire into the
various opinions which have been held
in different ages respecting the origin
of aerolites, and the power which
causes their descent, we must go back
to the times of the ancient Greeks,
and we find that those of their philoso-
phers who had directed their atten-
tion to the subject had four theories
to account for this singular phenome-
non. Some thought that meteoric
stones had a telluric origin, and re-
sulted from exhalations ascending
from the earth becoming condensed
to such a degree as to render them
solid. This theory was in after years
revived by Kepler the astronomer,
who excluded fire-balls and shooting
stars from the domain of astronomy;
because, accordiDg to his views, they

were simply ^meteors arii
the exhalations of the e
blending with the highe
Othei», like Aristotle, <
that they were masses
raised either by hurricane
jected by some volcano h
limits of the earth's attract!
coming inflamed and conve
time, into starlike bodies,
sohir origin ; this, however,
derided by Pliny and sevei
among whom we may mei
genes of Apollonia, alrcad
to as one of the chronicle
aerolite of ^gos Fotamos.
argues : " Stars that are inv
consequently have no name
space together with those

visible These invi

frequently fall to the earth
extinguished, as the stony s
fell burning at iEgos Fotamo
last opinion, it will be seen,
as far as it goes, almost exi
the most modern views on th
As some of the Greek*
the origin of meteorites :
sun (probably from the fact
sometimes falling during br
shine), so we find, at the
the seventeenth century, it
licved by a great many that
from the moon. Tiiis conje
pears to have been first haz
an Italian philosopher, nami
Maria Terzago, whose atteo
s[)ecially directed to this tm
the occasion of a meteoric si
ing at Milan in IGGO, and
Franciscan monk. Gibers,
was the first to treat this thi
scientific manner, and soon
fall of an aerolite at Sieni
year l794, he began to exaj
question by the aid of the )
struse mathematics, and aftei
years' hibor he succeeded in
that, in order to reach oar
stone would require to start
moon at an initial velocity <
feet per second; then pi
downward with increasing
would arrive on the earth

ASroKUs.

639

of 85,000 feet per second,
frequent measurements have
lat the actual TBie of aOrolites
1 114,000 feet, or about twenty-
s and a half per second, thej
ved by these curious and most
J calculations to have come from
ater distance than that of our

It is but fair to add that the
of initial velocity, on which
le value of this so-called
5 problem " depends, was in-
d by three other emipent
nans, Biot, Laplace, and
who during ten or twelve
ere independently engaged
is calculation. Biot's esti-
3 8,282 feet in the second;
7,862 ; and Poisson, 7,585—
1 approximating very closely
e stated by Olbers.
ive already observed, at the
: of this paper, that meteoric
&y fall at any moment, but
)ns, extending over many
ve sometimes been brought
> show that, as far as locality
tied, all countries are not
Bible to these visitations. In
ds, the large number of aero-
ih have been known to fall
certain limited area has been
I with the apparent rarity of
rrences beyond these limits,
d be proved that the earth

more attractive power in
.■es than in others, this cir-
) might be satisfactorily cx-
Hit in default of any such
the advocates of this theory
solely upon statistics, which
p very nature require to be
h a certain amount of re-
'rofessor Shepard, in Silli-
lerican Journal, has remark-
Jie fall of aerolites is confin-
tfdly to two zones; the one

to America is bounded by
44^ north latitude, and is
in length. Its direction is
383 from north-east to south-
wing the general line of the
oast Of all known occur-
thifl phenomenon during the

last fifty years, 92*8 per cent, have
taken place witliin these limits, and
mostly in the neighborhood of the sea.
The zone of the eastern continent —
with the exception that it extends ten
degrees more to the north — ^lies be-
tween the same degrees of latitude,
and follows a simihir north-east direc-
tion, but is more than twice the length
of the American zone. Of all the ob-
ser\'ed falls of aerolites, 90'9 per cent,
have taken place within this area, and
were also concentrated in that half of
the zone which extends along the At-
lantic."

On reference to a map, it will be
seen that in the western continent the
so-called zone is simply confined to the
United States — the most densely in-
habited portion of America. In like
manner the eastern zone leaves out
the whole of desert Africa, Lapland,
Finland,' the cliief part of Russia, with
an average of thirty-two inhabitants
to each square mile; Sweden and
Norway, with only seventeen per mile ;
whilst it embraces all th^ well-peopled
districts of central Europe, most of
which, like England, are able to count
between three and four hundred per-
sons to every mile of their territory.
In fact. Professor Shepard's state-
ment may almost be resolved^ into a
plain question of population, for were
an aerolite to fall in the midst of a
desert, or in a thinly peopled district,
it is needless to point out how few the
chances are of its descent being ever
noticed or recorded. That innumera-
ble aerolites do fall without attracting
any attention, is clearly proved by
the number of discoveries continually
taking place of metallic masses which,
from their locality and peculiar chem-
ical composition, could only be derived
from some extra-terrestrial source.
The great size also of many of these
masses entirely precludes the possibil-
ity of their having been placed by hu-
man agency in the positions they have
been found to occupy — sometimes on
the surface of the earth, but just as
frequently buried a few feet in the
ground.

540

ASroHies.

Thus the traveller Pallas found, in
1749, at Abakansk, in Siberia, the
mass of meteoric iron, weighing 1,G80
lb., now in the Imperial Museum at
St. Petersburg. Another, lying on
the plain of Tucuman, near Otumpa,
in South America, has been estimated,
by measurement, to weigh no less than
83,600 lb., or about fifleen tons ; and
one added last year to the splendid
collection of meteorites in the British
Museum weighs rather more than three
and a half tons. It was found at Cran-
boume, near Melbourne, and was pur-
chased by a Mr. Bruce, with a view to
his presenting it to the British Museum,
when, through some misunderstanding,
it was discovered that one half of it hud
been already promised to the museum
at Melbourne. In order, therefore, to
save it from any such mutilation, the
trustees of our national museum ac-
quired and transferred to the*authori-
ties of the Melbourne collection a
smaller mass which had been sent in
18 62 to the International Exhibition.
It weighed about 3,000 lb., and had
been found near Melbourne, in the im-
mediate vicinity of the groat met<iorite.
The latter was then forwarded entire
to London. In the British Museum
may also be seen a small fragment of
an aerolite, originally w<Mghing 191
lb., which from time immemorial had
been lying at Elbogcn, near Carlsbad,
in Bohemia, and had always borue
the legendary appellation of "rf^r t>er-
wunschte Burggraf," or the enchanted
Burgrave. The remainder of thi.s
mass is i)resorved in the Imperial col-
lection at Vienna. In Great Britain
only two meteoric masses (not seen to
fall) have hitherto been discovered ;
one was found about forty years ago
near Leadhills, in Scotland ; the other
in 1861, at Xewstead, in lloxburgh-
shire.

Several instances have at different
times occurred in which stones like
aerolites have been found, and prized
accordingly, until their real nature
was demonstrated by the aid of chem-
ical analysis. One valuable specimen,
found a few years ago, was sho\ni to

have derived its origin ann
8con€B of an iron foundry ;
picked up m the Isle of Wigb
out to be a nodule of iron
similar in every respect to th(
abound in the neighboring ch
and lastly, some aerolites of
iarly glassy appearance we
shortly after, of which it r
haps, suffice to say that the
this discovery was — Birming

When we come to ex£uniu(
position of meteoric stones, i
various specimens a great di'
their chemical structure. I
metal most invariably prescD
accompanied by a consider
centage of nickel and cobalt ;
other metals, chromium, co|i
lybdenum, manganese, and tii
all these iron is that which lai
ponderates, forming sometime;
as ninety-six parts in thehundi
instances have, however, !»eei
ed where the proiK>rtion of
sunk so low as to fonn only
cent, and the deficiency tliu
has been made up by a \ar*iv
ture of some ej»rthy mineral,
augite, hornblende, or olivine,
gredients, like carbon, suljiluir,
etc, are also found to enter,
ent proportions, into the con
of aerolites ; the total number
ical elements observed in tlu
this present date bein|rninrte<T
ty. It has been well reniarkt
able writer, that no new sub-^t
hitherto come to us troni with*
thus we find that all these nii
twenty elements are pnH;i.sel;
to those which are tlistributed
out the nx'ks and minenils
earth ; the essential difference
the two classes of com{xumd-
tial and terrestrial — ^being so
clearly in the resiKJctive mo
which the component parts
mixed.

In the outward appearance
lites there is one characteristi
stant that, out of the many
examples that have been recoi
only (as fur as we con asccrt

Ddiimtmee.

541

wanting m it We refer to the
fused cmst or rind with which
ir&ce of meteoric stones is coy-
It nsually extends not more
a few tenths of an inch into the
ance of the stone, and is suppoa-
result from the extreme rapidi-
th which thej descend into the
sn of onr atmosphere, causing
to undergo a slight and partial
Qstion, which, however, from the
time necessarily occupied in their
ot, has not sufficient time to pen-
3 beyond the surface. On cut-
and polishing the stones, if the
th face is treated with nitric acid,
1 m many cases be found to ex-
Imes and angular markings, com-
y known by the name of " wid-
isted figures." These are trac-
of imperfect crystals, while the
1 intermediate spaces, preserving
polish, point out those portions
le stone which contain a larger
ortion of nickel than the rest of
mass. We may here add that

the noise said at times to accompany
the fall of aerolites, does not appear
to be a constant characteristic, nor
does the cause or exact nature of it
seem able to be definitely specified.

In conclusion, we cannot do better
than advise those of our readers who
desire further information on this sub-
ject to take the earliest opportunity
— ^if they have not done so abeady —
of paying a visit to the magnificent
collection of meteoric stones, contained
in several glass cases at the end of the
mineral gallery at the British Mu-
slim. The catalogue for the year
1856 gave a list of between 70 and
80 specimens; in 1863 this number
had increased to 216, mainly through
the energy of the curator, Mr. Mas-
kelyne ; and since that date there have
been several further additions. Chief
among continental museums may be
mentioned the Imperial collection at
Vienna, as possessing a series of spe-
cimens remarkable alike for their size
and importance.

Prom Good Worda.

DELIVERANCE.

As some poor captive bird, too weak to fly,
Still lingers in its open cage, so I

My slavery own.
For evil makes a prison-house within ;
TOie gloom of sin, and sorrow bom of sin.

Doth weigh me down.
Ah I Christ, and wilt not-thou regard my sighs,
Long wakeful hours, and lonely miseries.

And hopes forlorn ?
Let not my fainting soul be thus subdued.
Nor leave thy child in darkened solitude.

All night to mourn !

He hears my prayer ! the dreary night is done,
I feel the soft air and the blessed sun.

With heavenly beams.
He comes, my Lord ! in raiment glistening white.
From pastures golden in the morning light

And crystal streams.
O let me come to thee ! — from this dark place —
And see my gentle Shepherd face to face,

And hear his voice.
So shall these bitter tears no longer flow,
And thou shalt teach my secret heart to know

Thy sacred joys !

542

What Came of a Lamgh an a Ckrisimaa Bve.

OBioniAU

WHAT CAME OF A LAUGH ON A CHRISTMAS EVE.

" Beg your pardon, sir," said T, as
soon as I could compose myself suffi-
ciently to speak ; " I couldn't help it.**

** Glad to hear it. Just what I
want. I was debating with myself
whether it was sure for a laugh. I
am looking for things that will make
one laugh ; in short, buying up causes
for laughter on a Christmas day.
There can be no doubt, you think,
about this being funny?"

*• Not a bit of it," said I.

" Well, ni have one for every bas-
ket, then," said the old gentleman, his
eyes twinkling with delight, as he
danced the toy up and down. It was
one of those jointed wooden monkeys
that by means of a slide performs
the most comical evolutions around the
top of a pole.

"You see," continued he, "I cannot
always trust my o^vn judgment. There's
no credit in my laughing, bless your
heart. I'd be a monster, yes, a mon-
ster, my dear sir, if I didn't. I'm just
like this monkey as you sec him now
in this position, ready to go over the
other side with the slightest provoca-
tion. I have everything that heart
can wisli, sir, to laugh at and be hap-
py ; but they, poor dears, they are so
far on the minus side of merriment, as
well they may be, that it takes a little
something extra, you see, to get a good
hearty squeal out of them."

I became at once intensely interest-
ed in the ** poor dears" alluded to. The
sight of the old gentleman was enough
to make one do unheard-of feats of
heroism in favor of any person or
tiling of which he might take the le.ist
notice. I ventured to sup|>ose that
tliey had lost something or somebody
lately, with the intention of offering my
hand or purse as the case mighrl^

" Can't say that they have," 1
plied, rubbing his shiny bald
" Being generally on the mina
of everything, including laaghtei
haven't anything to lose which j
I might think worth keeping, i
their lives, and somehow I
they've got used to losing even
pretty comfortably."

I was perplexed, and mm
" Curious sort of i)eople, those."

" But interesting, yonll al
said he.

I replied that I had no doubt
and I meant it, for so charmin
open-hearted was this. old gentl
that I was ready to sulwcribe n
tatingly to any asseveration he
be pleased to make ; " but — " I j
about to express my ignorance <
individuals in question, when he
rupted me.

** Why— but ? My Minnie, tin
ling of the World and the Snnsh
my life" (expressing the titles c
))erson in the largest capitals), ^
held an ante-Christmas counci
morning, and it was propo!»ed 1
president, that is myself, and sec
by the said Darling of the Wor
Sunshine of my life, and carried
overwhelming majority, indudin]
who said he went in for an
good, that huts were unpirliam*
when Christmas was conceme*:
so we called the roll, twenty
and there being no buts, they all
unchallenged, making twenty bj
and now as many monkeys to
them. What do you think of it !
ital, wasn't it ?"

I was certain it was, and wn
pared to go any odds in its favo

"Whats more," he added,
are going privately."

What Game of a Laiuffk on a Chrutmai Hve.

548

: oommitted beyond all expla-
'. said I was glad to hear that
Miss Minnie approves." This
position I made with a depre-
)ugh, not being quite sure of
tion which the old gentleman
the Darling of the World and
ihine of his life,
as her own proposal,** was his
r, "and you can't imagine

immense relief it was to me
', is more than I can stand to
igh with the " thank ye sir's,'*
'much obliged V and the " long
Mir honor's." I'm a baby, sir,
presence, and by the time the
ion is made Fm a spectacle of
ited woe, as if I'd been to as
nerals as there are baskets. I
3r that as I was coming out
widow and five children, last
IS, that rascal Bob saw me
ny eyes, and says he, * Most
lead, sir ?' * No, Bob,' says
be smoke, I suppose ; the/ve
ms smoky chimney.' But

got to the next place — let me
! yes, a man with a broken
scoundrel says to me, as he
out the basket, ' Now, let us
other one, sir.' Not bad for
IS if? I had such a good

I each pair of stairs before-

I I got through that one pretty
bly. But it was a glorious

of my Minnie's, was it not,
se should go privately? for
at home, and check them oft
go in, for I've arranged that
senger shall deliver them by
ih, sir, and we'll imagine their

and their happy faces, and
g;ing out of the monkeys, and
1l have a roar and be jolly.
rid of the thank ye's and all
of it that chokes up a man's
md turns him into a bom

And here the good-hearted
leman, in the fulnees of his do-
used the monkey in his hand
rm a series of rapid gymnas-
r the top of his pole, beyond
ere of any monkey that ever
He presented such a comical

appearance in doing this that I burst
into another hearty laugh in which he
as heartily joined.

" It is irresistibly amusing,** said I,
meaning the monkey.

"I knew it would be,'* he return-
ed, his mind running upon the happy
scheme by which he might prevent his
lefl hand knowing the deeds of the
right ; " we will have twenty merry
Christmas laughs all rolled into one.
There I'll be, as it were, on this side,"
here he took a position on the floor c^-
posite me, " and my Darling over there,
as it were you," a distinction I acknow-
ledged by a profound bow, ** and Bob
standing behind her chair, as that rock-
ing-horse stands behind you ; and then,
watch in hand, we'll check them off:
Number One, Widow Bums, two smaU
children ; Number Two, Susy Bell, or-
phan girl, works in a carpet factory
and supports her two orphan sisters ;
Number Thr^, old Granny Mullen,
with consumptive son and three grand-
children, and so on ; and there we'll
have them all right before us, and they
knowing nothing about it (there's the
beauty of it, all due to that blessed
Darling of the World and Sunshine of
my life), and out will come the joint
of meat, ready cooked, and the mince-
pie, and the plum-pudding with a
dozen of sijver quarter dollars in each
one, and the shoes and the stock-
ings, and I don't know what else
besides, packed away by my Dar-
ling's own sweet little hands, and
last of all the monkey with a label
around his neck, with an inscription,
say, for instance, 'From Nobody in
particular, with best wishes for a Mqt-
ry Christmas.' There you have it,"
added he, waving the monkey trium-
phantly in the air, " aiid won't it be
grand?"

** I'd give the world to see it," I ex-
claimed, quite carried away by the old
gentleman's enthusiastic manner. Just
then the keeper of the toy-shop hand-
ed me a package of marbles, tops,
jewsharps, a pocket spy-glass, and a
few other things of a like nature cal-
culated to make glad the heart of

544

What Came of a Laugh an a Cknttmu JOw*

bojs, which I had purchased for 1x17
litUe nephew, Willie, in the country.

" This for you, Mr. Holiday ; but if
you wish, I'll send it around to the
doctor's," said the toy-vender.

" Lord bless my heart and soul !"
exclaimed the old gentleman, seizing
me suddenly by both hands. ^ Not Al-
fred Holiday is it P*

" That is my name," said I.
y « Nephew of Dr. Ben ?"

« Nephew of Dr. Ben,'* I repeat-
ed.

^ And how long have you been in
the city?"

" About a week," said I. "I came
* up to spend Christmas with Uncle Ben
and Aunt Mary."

^And to take a look in at the
Owl's Retreat, No. 9 Harmony place,
of course ?"

I intimated my ignorance of the Re-
treat in questfon, and of my not having
the pleasure, etc

" My house, man, my house," said
he, shaking my hands up and down.
" Dr. Ben and I are old acquaintances ;
in fact, ever since my Minnie was —
I beg your pardon,'* added he, suddenly
recollecting himself, and producing a
card from his vest pocket. ** Name of
Acres, Thomas Acres, who, with the
compliments of his daughter Miimie
to the same effect, will be — most hap-
py — to see — 3fr. Alfred — Holiday —
on to-morrow morning — \o join in —
the grand — checking off — of the —
twenty baskets— anrf their — contents
— including — monkeys — and of course
stay to dinner."

If the old gentleman's cordial man-
ner had any weight in deciding my ac-
ceptance of the invitation, it must be
confessed that the curiosity to see the
" Darling of the World and the Sun-
shine of his life" added not a little to it.
Pn)mising to he on hand at No. 9 be-
fore eleven o'clock, at which liour the
checking off was to begin, I bade my
new-found friend good-morning and
went home.

But it was very provoking not to
know more of the ** Darling and Sun-
shine" in question. Standing in such a

light to sucii a fatbery she v
a peerless being. Age-
Height — medium, I am
Blonde or brunette— dil
termine. Sunshine wou
dicate blonde, yet darli
cither. Good, amiable,
plished — not a doubt of i
name too, said I, as I 8<
every style of the cal
thereby destroying no s
of my uncle's property
edged note paper. Haa
or already, lloity-toitj
Holiday, you are castle-l
small amount of materia
me ; and if she have, pra;
is that of yours? a qu
that imaginative young ge
ing himself unable to sol
fit of despondency, and m
a despairing state of mim
Punctual to tlie appo
walked into ILirmony p]
unpretentious street, and
gate of No. 9. Then
both a rain and heavy
niglit, and the trees and sh
in a complete armor of
and glittered in the brig
Unfortunately, tlie groun
this universal covering, ai
der the impression that sc
looking from behind the c
might possibly be the Da
World and the Sunshine
of Mr. Thomas Acres, I
deavored to walk upon
pavement with careless \
were the most ordinary g
world. I now advise my I
my to try it. In an unguar
my feet slipped, and I ca
the most unpleasant ma
sitting |>osture upon the
thought I heard the sounc
ringing laugh following i
upon my ignominious falL
wjLs from No. 10 or No.
heart misgave me as !
with a half dozen supcH
divided between his daugh
self, introduced me, and a [
deep eyes, in which I thoaj

Whai Came of a Laugh on a ChrisUruu Eve,

545

twinkle, quietlj but warm-
Mlged my presence,
red Holiday, my child, our
Doctor Holiday's nephew ;
y, my daughter Minnie, the
the World and the Sunshine
IS I have already told you,
ve of this Owl's Retreat'*
ttosi happy," of course, and
Q both, with a bow to Miss
lerry Christmas,
re getting afraid, Mr. HoU-
5 should be obliged to be-
: you," said that bright-
dtogether beautiful young
one of voice which I afkcr-
icterized in a violently
m, written just before mid-
' rippling diamonds' and
pearls.' "

! — without me ?*' I exclaim-
a most unjustifiable empha-
personal pronoun. " I am
3red.'*

all ; my father tells me he
' indebted to you in assist-

the choice of some toys
r the children."
>r — ^laughing," stammered
think, Miss Acres, that one
indebted to another for a
'. was thinking of my stupid
le ice, and began to regret

accredited to No. 8 or
3unds of merriment which
r eai*3.

gives good cause," she re-
the quietest and most pro-
niles. The deep, dark eyes
gain, and Nos. 8 and 10
tted.

Mr. Holiday,'* said Mr.
: us take an inspection of

Wagon is loaded, strange
with a watch in his pocket,
a; whence he comes or
goes, nobody knows. Ha I
;, my dear, put me down
ancient Owl has struck a
; no time to register it, how-
i along ; while I am immor-
iraelf, twenty hungry fami-
iting for a Christmas din-
ii*t expect to gety and their

rOL, IT 86

mouths watering for plum-puddings
and mince pies that they have not the
most distant expectation of — ^and the
good old soul led the way into the
ball, and thence into the court yard, at
the entrance of which stood a large
covered furniture- cart, filled to over-
flowing with the wonderful twenty baA-
kets destined to distribute happiness
among as many poor and suffering
families, and make their hearts merry
on Christmas day. Each basket was
labelled with its direction, number, and
time of delivery.

" Now, John," said Mr. Acres to the
driver as he mounted to his place on
the cart, "remember, you are bom
deaf and dumb, can't hear a word nor
even say ' Merry Christmas,' until you
come back here and report."

" Lave me alone, sir," replied John
with a broad grin, " the fun shan't be
spiled for me."

" He enters into it, he enters into it,
you see," said Mr. Acres, addressing
Minnie and myself. " What's the time,
John, by yours ?"

" Near eleven, sir."

" Time's up, then.

" One, two, three, and off you go.
Twenty baskets piled In a row :
Ask me no questions, for I don^t know.

Positively, my darling, there's some
tiling inspiring in the air this monv
ing."

John cracked his whip, and the cart
moved out of the yard, turned down
the street, and was soon out of sight.
Mr. Acres was a perfect picture of
happiness as be stood gazing at the
departing vehicle, rubbing his hands
with delight, and his full, round face
beaming with intense satisfaction. As
I glanced at Minnie I saw her eyes
filled with tears of love and pride as
she watched the movements of her
father. Turning about suddenly be
noticed her emotion, upon which he
went up to her, and placing a hand on
her either cheek said with mock grav-
ity:

^ Miss Minnie Acres, the Darling of
the World and the Sunshme of myUfe^
is hereby invited to attend the ftmernlof

546

What Oam$ of a Laugh on a ChriUmm S99.

twenty baskets withoat further notice.
Ha I ha ! you recollect Bob, you know ;
and no time to lose either," he added,
taking Minnie's hand in his right and
mine in his left, and turning toward
the parlor ; ** so let us get at it, my
dears; excuse the liberty, Mr. Holi-
day, I*m in a glorious humor, and it's
Christmas day, and here we are, and
hierc 8 the list, so sit ye down ; and
Bob, Bob! you rascal, where are
you ?*'

The rascal thus vociferously called
for responded immediately by present-
ing at the door a form about four feet
in height, of the rarest obesity, clothed
in a dark-gray suit, evidently denned
for the first time, and holding with
both hands the stifiest and hardest of
hats. There was no motion of his
lips visible, but a sound was heard as
if it proceeded from tlie inside of a
cotton-bale, wliich was understood to
mean —

" Here I am, sir ; respects, gentle-
men and ladies, and a Merry Christ-
mas."

** Pretty time of day for that " said
Mr. Acres, "as if a body were just
out of bed, and hadn't heard Mass
yet Oh! I see," he continued, glanc-
ing at Bob's new clothes, which I have
no doubt were the delivery of an or-
der from T. Acres, Esq., made that
very morning by Tibbits & Son,
fashionable tailors. "Well, Merry
Christmas, Bob ; but don't stand bow-
ing there all day" — which feat that in-
dividual seemed to be vainly attempt-
ing to execute, but could not get through
with to his entire satisfaction — " come
in, and stand there by Miss Minnie,
and listen to the checking off, and
we*ll see if it's all right as a trivet,
as it should be. Lord! I'd eat no
dinner if there was one left out."

The "checking off" commenced im-
mediately, the time being up for (he
delivery of the first basket Nothing
could exceed the delight of the old
gentleman as Minnie read from the
list the names of the parties w)io at
that moment received the basket, their
filaoes of reaidence, and a detailed

account of the articles tent
basket contained 'a suffideDt
for a hearty Christinas dinner
family, jellies, wines, and othei
cies for the sick, some articles c
ing, and last of all the toy moi

" They've all got one,** at
Acres, chuckling with glee as
Number One was mentioned ; '
must do it regular and put t
down, or I should be afraid fi
looked one, which isn't like!
ever, for they are all down at
tom of each basket, and I p
there myself."

One by one the baskets wen
ed off, Mr. Acres with watch
calluig "time," and Minnie
thereupon the names of the
and contents of the basket
to them. We very soon reali
old gentleman's promise that 11 '
have a roar, for as the dbti
went on the merriment increi
all considered it their boundi
to laugh louder and longer
mention of the monkey of t
ket then checked off than thcj
the last one. Even Bob, whose
powers seemed to be rather
and which were evidently unc
greater restraint by reason
additional dignity which beca
new outfit, succeeded in increas
hilarity of the occasion by th*
cal manner he pedbrmed his a
cd duty in the checking off,
consist^ in answering '* right
the number and names were ai
ed, and submittmg any infoi
obtained of the parties in q
through the intervention of a
Mrs. McQuircy, whose "abac
the present delightful reunioi
plained Mr. Acres, " was on
the numerous duties with whit
excellent lady had burdened h
Tiiese duties, I afterward leariM
sisted in making a daily momii
to a number of sick poor peopk
Mr. Acres bad taken under hia
ing care. Bob's inf >nnatioQ «
markablc for its brevity of ezp
as well as for its peeulitrlj ▼•

What Game of a^taugh an a GhriMimaM Eve.

547

character, due to the extraor-
amount of. adipose matter
aveloped bis organs of speech,
cet Number Five, for instance,
•* Bad — ^husband goes it every
y night — children thin as
landles.** OK Number £ight
jrted : " Measles — shanty —
tree — allers hungry." Of Num-
a, " Wus — man broken leg^
work — ain't fit neither if there
Uions/' Of Number Twenty,
, having by this time exhaust-
tock of adjectives, he summed
■eport thus : ** Extremely wust
luU lot — widder— nine mortal
hungry bones — and what will
with 'em r

with them!" exclaimed Mr.
"we'll have Mrs. McQuirey
m up. Bob, eh ? Minnie, dear,
note of Number Twenty, that
is only a bite."

baskets being all checked oflT,
A ordered to pi*oduce forthwith
of wine and glasses. '* Now
>Ve got through with it com-
," said Mr. Acres, "we'll
11 their healths, and wish 'cm
IT Christmas," which was done,
iding. " Hoping,'' continued
ince of Charity, glass in hand,
fing toward the four points of
ipass, as if the whole twenty
were arrang.^d about him in
S ^thsX you may all have
lappy returns of the season,
ftt know a Christmas that is
erry one."

r was a toast drunk with purer
ism or a heartier good-will,
ig it to be the [.art of some
cheer the sentiment, and not
loy of the parties present who
irith great propriety perform
y, Bob took it upon himself
heir proxy, which he accord-
d by waving his new hat in a
id giving throe muffled " Hoo-
rom the cotton bale,
few minutes John the messen-
raed. He was at once intro-
> the parlor, where he gave a
aeoount of his errand.

" The shammin' deaf an' dumb was
thryin* to me sowl above alL It wint
aginst me not to be able to say the
top o' the mornin' to yc^ or aven Grod
save all here on a Christmas dhay to
the crathers, an' the Lord forgive me
for peepin' an' a listenin' wliin they
thought I was deaf as a post, but it
was in a good cause. It tuk the tears
out o' me two eyes, so it did, to hear
thim wondherin and prayin'and a bless-
in' yez, and a cryin' for joy, and to see
the childcr dancln' the monkeys like
mad. Och! but it's a glory to be a
rich man like yer honor. Me mouth
wathcrs whin I think o' the threasures
ye' re a hapin' up above."

" Bob," interrupted Mr. Acres, shift-
ing uneasily in his seat, "you had
better get out the crape hat-bauds, for
I see a funeral coming round the cor-
ner."

" A funeral is it ?" said John. " May
it be a thousand years afore it shtops
forninst yer honor's doors."

" Thank ye, John ; thank ye," said
Mr. Acres, suddenly rising and going
to the window, where he stood appar-
ently deeply interested in the view of
a blank wall and some smoky chim-
ney-pots before him.

" Whin his day comes," continued
John, loud enough to be overheard by
Mr. Acres, "what a croonin' and a»
philaluin' thim poor crathers will be-
makin'. Sure, their tears will be
droopin' like diamonds into his grave."

This was too much for Mr. Acres,
who turned around, presenting a pic-
ture of inconsolable grief. It was only
after two or three violent efforts to
clear his throat of some unusually
large obstacle which appeared to-
have stuck there that he succeeded in
sayin;]: :

"Merry Christmas, John! Merry
Christmas! You will find a plum-
pudding, John, waiting down-stairs,"
and immediately began another sur-
vey of the blank wall and chimney-
pots, making at the same time sevemi
abortive attempts to whistle.

John took the hint, and bowed him-
self oat of the room* A dead ailenoei

A CkristmoM Dream. 549

peated in b:s mind an innuraerablo af^er, he would send twenty baskets

number of times : in a word, that Mr. of provisions to as many poor families

Alfred Holiday fell head over ears in every Christmas Eve, as a thank-uf-

love with Miss Minnie Acres, and fering, and a grateful remembrance

made a vow, which up to the present of tlio hour when he laughed, and

writing he has religiously kept, that thereby won the most beautiful and

if she would accept his hand and most faithful wife that man ever had.
heart, which she did a few weeks

From Th« London Society.

A CHRISTMAS DREAM.

A Pilgrim to the West returned, whose palm-branch, drenched in dew,
Shook off bright drops like childhood*s tears when childhood's heart is new,
Stole up the hills at eventide,' like must in wintry weather.
Where locked in dream-like trance I lay, at rest among the heather.

The red ferns, answering to his tread; sent up a savor sweet ;
The yellow gorse, like Magian gold, glowed bright about his feet :
The waving brooms, the winter blooms, each happy voice in air,
Grew gi-eat with life and melody, as if a Christ stood there.

Unlike to mortal man was he. His brow rose broad and high :

The peace of heaven was on his lip, the Grod-light in his eye;

And rayed with richer glory stn^amod, through night and darkness shed,

To crown that holy Pilgrim's brow, the one star overhead.

Long gazing on that staff he bore, boholJIng how it grew

With sprouts of green, with buds between, and young leaves ever new.

The marvels of the Eastern land I bade him all unfold.

And thus to my impassioned ears the wondrous tale he told :

^Each growth upon that sacred soil where one died not in vain,
Tboagh crushed and shed, though seeming dead, in beauty lives again :
The branching bough the knife may cleave, the root the axe may sever,
Bat oo the ground his presence lighted, nothing dies for ever.

* Where once amid the lowly stalls fell soft the Virgin's tear,

The littered straw 'neath children's feet turns to green wheat in ear.
The com he pluck'd on Sabbath day:), though ne'er it feels the sun,
Thongh millions since have trod the field, bears fruit for every one.

*Thc palms that on his way were strewn wave ever in the air;
From clouded earth to sun-bright heaven they form a leafy stair.
In Cana's bowers the lovf? of man is touched by the divine ;
And snows that fall on Galilee have stiU the taste of wine.

* Where thy lost locks, poor Magdalen ! around his feet were rolled,
Still springH in woman's worship-ways the gracious Mary -gold :

Iffeo know when o'er that bowed down head they hear the angels weeping,
Xhe pmer f pint is not dead—not dead, but only sleeping.

MO Vtetmi of DaubL

** Aloft on blackened Calvary no more the shadowB lower :

Where fell the piercing crown of thorns, there blooms a thorn in lloicr.

Bright on the prickled holy-tree and mistletoe' appear,

Beflecting rays of heavenly shine, the blod-drop and the tear.

^ The sounding rocks that knew his tread wake up each dead abyss,
Where echoes caught from higher worlds ring gloriously in this ;
And, leaning where his voice once filled the temple where be taught,
The listener's eyes grew spirit-full — ^fiiU with a heavenly thought"

The Pilgrim ceased. My heart beat fast I marked a clmnge of hue ;
As if tliose more than mortal eyes a soul from God looked through.
Then rising slow as angels rise, and soaring faint and far,
He passed my bound of vision, robed in glory, as a star.

Strange herald voices filled the air : glad anthems swelled aroand :
The wakened winds rose eager-voiced, and lapsed in dreamy sound.
It seemed all birds that wintered far, drawn home by some blessed power,
Made music in the Christmas woods, mistaking of the hour.

A new glad spirit raptured me ! I woke to breathe the mom
With heart fresh-strung to charity — as though a Christ were bom.
Then knew I how each earth-bom thought, though tombed in chiy it seem,
It bursts the sod, it soars to God, transfigured in a dream.

Eleanoiul I* Huvn.

^om the Montii.

VICTIMS OF DOUBT.

It is not the fashion at present to And, if wo mny judgo Oram whst we

scoff at Christianity, or to make an hear and read, it i^ this to which most

q)en profession of infidelity. Ponder- schools of thought outside of the Gtfb-

ous treatises to prove that revealed re- oiic Church are rapidly drifting, if thej

ligion is an impossibility, and coarse have not already reached it, ami into

blasphemies against holy tilings, are which restless and disloyal GatkoGei

equally out of date. Yet to men of are in danger of being precipitatei

earnest convictions, whether holding An answer made to on old Ozfori

the whole or only some portions of re- friend by one who was once wi&

vealed truth, the moral atmuApherc is him in tho van of the Tractariia

not reassuring. The pious Catholic, movement but did not acconpflif

the Bible-loving Protestant and the him into the true fold, ^l agree with

hybrid of the last phase of Tractarian- you, that if there is a dlTioo icr*

ion, are alike distrustful of the smooth ekition, the Boman Catholic Chardi i*

aspect of controversy and the calm the ordained depository of it; bil

surface of the irroligioifs element this is an uncertainty which I caaiMl

Thwe is something worse tlian bigotry solve," would probably exprev fkt

or miibelief, and thai is scepticisin. habitual atata o£ miad of a fiaaiMkf

P&Cimi of DtnAu

851

nbcr of the more ihonghtful
mtrymen, and the occaBional

of many more who do not
e themselves time to think,
ttltiuides who are plunging or
to doubts the Catholic system,
leir unhappy training has
>ne of their first principles to
r detest, has not even present-
is an alternative,
urrent literature of the day,

mostly framed to suit the
the market, and reacts agun
ping that taste flirther in the
■ection, is pre-eminently, not
I0U8, or anti-Catholic, or po-
)at scepticaL The following
m of the periodical press by
i Louis Baunard, in his recent
3n,* misrht seem to have been
3r London instead of Paris :
I some rare exceptions, you
ind any rude scoffing, violent
ms, mifashionable cynicism,
rstems, or exclusive intoler-
is not controversy that is the
of these writers, but criticism,
d in expositions and supposi-
t almost always without de-
Dything. It is a principle
n that there are only shades
nee between the most contra-
propositions; and the reader

accustomed to see these
1 such questions as those which

the personality of God, the
)f Jesus Christ, and the super-
;enerally. This does not hin-
\ men from calling themselves
18, in the vague sense of a
irislianity, which allows the
^ ancient beliefs to remain,
iestroys their substance. They
isault the old religion in front,
tly undermine the foundations
I it rests, and carry on ingen-
allels by the side of revealed
I] some conclusion emerges
terly subverts it, without hav-
ared to be intentionally direct*
St it. There is one review,

widely circulated of all, in the

to ci MS VlcUmes dans le SlAde pr6seat,
lALMilsBMurd. Pftrifl.

same number of which an article dear-
ly atheistical will be found by the side
of another article breathing the most
correct orthodoxy, and very much sur-
prised to see itself in such company.
Such concessions to truth, which are
made only now and then, serve to give
the publication that makes them a cer^
tain appearance of impartiality, and
thus to accredit error, and to lay one
more snare for the reader."

We may be inclined, on a cursory
perusal of such periodicals as The
Saturday Review, to indulge gleefully
in the laughter excited by the ludi-
crous aspect in which some pompous
prelate or fussy evangelical preacher
is presented ; or to admire the acute
and seemingly candid dissection, at
one time, i<f a Protestant scheme of
evidences, at another, of an infidel
philosophy ; or to rejoice in the sub-
stitution of decorous calmness for ran-
cor and raving in handling Catholic
truth. But when we study a series of
such publications, and notice how sys-
tematically all earnest convictions are
made to show a weak or ridiculous
side, and all proofs of Christianity to
appear defective, and how, under a
smooth surface of large-minded im-
partiality, there beats a steady tide of
attack upon all supernatural virtue
and all supernatural truth, our hearts
must needs ache to think of the effects
of such teaching on multitudes of
imperfectly grounded minds. In the
words of the author to whom we have
referred : ^ Right and wron^, true and
false, yes and no, meet and jostle each
other, and are mistaken for each other
in minds bewildered and off their
guard, and mostly incapable of dis-
crimination : till at length, lost in these
cross- roads, tired of systems and of
contradictions, and not knowing in
what direction to find light, all but the
most energetic sit down and rest io
doubt, as in the best wisdom and the
safest position." But to sit down in
doubt is either to abdicate the highest
powers of a reasonable being, or to
admit an enemy that will use them
as iDStruments qSl torture. JSzoepi for

VtctifM of DovbU

MHils of little intellectaal activity, or
wholly steeped in sense, this sitting
down in doubt is like sitting down in a
train that is moving out of the station
with the steam up and no engine-driv-
er, or in a boat that is drifting out of
harbor into a stormy sea.

The Abbe Baunard has collected
the experiences of some of these reck-
less and storm-tossed wanderers into
a painfully interesting volume. Ho
has selected from the chief sceptical
philosophers and poets of the present
century those who, in private journals
or autobiographical sketches, have
made the fullest disclosures of the
working of their own minds, and has
let them speak for themselves. He
calls them *^ victims of doubt," and
bids us listen with compa^^sion to their
bitter lamentations over the wreck of
the past, and their gloomy anticipations
of the future, and to the cries of jMiin
and shame which seem forced out
of them, even amidst their proudest
boasts of independence and most res-
olute rejections of revealed truth.
But, although an expivssion here or
there maybe unguarded, he distinguish-
es very clearly between pitying and
excusing these victims, lie reinindt)
us that compassion for the suflferings
entailed by doubt cannot absolve from
the guilt of doubt. He protests against
the claim made by sceptics to be re-
garded as warriors in conflicts in
which only the nobh3 engage, and as
scarred with honorable wounds; and
against the notion that to have suffered
much in a wrong cause is a guarantee
of sincerity and a title to salvation.
He quotes with reprobation the plea of
M. Octave Feuillet : " Ah ! despise as
much as you choose what is despicable.
Bat when unbelief suffers, implores,
and is respectful, do you resjieet it.
Tliere are blasphemies, be assured,
which are as goo J as prayers, and un-
believers who are martyrs. Yes, I
firmly believe that the sufferings of
doabt are holy, and that to think of
QoAf and to be always thinking of him,
even with despair, is to honor him and
to be pleaiing to him." He would not

admit the same plea in the m
sible form and more touching
in which it is urged by Mr.
" You who look with cold eye
a one, and lift them up to be
thank Grod you arc not sucb t
call him hard names, and thii
as of one who is forsaking a <
pursuing unlawful indulgence
serving all good men's reproa
could you see down below h
surface, could you count
streaming down his cheek:
through some church-door
street come pealing the old
notes, and the old psalms ^
cannot sing, the chanted crc
is no longer his creed, and y<
with which was worse agony
lose his dearest friend ; ah ! >
deal him lighter measure,
not his cup bitter enough,
all the good, whose kinJnesi
whose sympathy and sorrow
prayers he might have hoped
these must turn away from
from an offence, as from a i
bid ? — that ho must tread t!
press alone, calling n.'> Go
man his friend ; and this, too,
sure knowledge that of coldn
of all he is deserving, fur Go
it is no pleasant task which 1
laid on him." The fallacies '^
dextrously interwoven in this
that sym[)athy precludes condc
that intense suffering of a
sanctities the sufferer, and
state of doubt is imposed as i
and not wilfully incurred and
are refuted out of tlie mouth
who resort to them. We see
in the recorJs of these vie
doubt, various circumstances
to their fall ; such as the he
state of the colleges where i
them lost t tcir faith, the ai
ian theories of science and ph
magisterially propoundei to tl
personal influence of friends n
already committed to sceptic
poisonous literature thrown in i
and the excitement of political
tiona ; and, of ooune, in the

Viaiimi of Doubt.

653

10 had not received a Catho-
tion, the far greater palliation
sence of a coherent system of
But, at the same time, we see
phiinly the working of wilful
3e and presumption in their
Into the abyss, and of wilful
id obstinac/ in refusing to
means of extrication from it.
) victims of doubt as others
ns of a habit of opium-eating
ling; and if we sympathize
a more deeply than with these
is rather because their anguish
intense and more refiaed than
it is less the harvest of their
'ing. By the side of those
, there were others of the
sibility of mind, placed in the
icumstances, exposed to the
aults, who stood firm by pray-
humility, and who found in
bh a provision for all their
ants, and a fountain of peace
le heaviest trials. And by
of those who, having once
pwreck of their faith, plunged
I more deeply into despair of
anything with certainty, till
5 away the life that their own
ad made an intolerable bur-
e were others equally astray
ally burdened, who worked
back to life and peace by
path of earnest and humble
Some of these contrasts are
ctively presented by our au-
others will suggest themselves
iders.

ictima whose wanderings and
\ are portrayed in this volume
lore Jouffroy, Maine de Biran,
)3a, Georges, Fatxsjc^nd Ei-
iierer from among the philoso-
the century ; and Lord By-
idrich Schiller, Heinrich von
id Leopardi from among the
lUowed by a less detailed ac-
a group of French sceptical
fred de Musset, Henri Heine,
Gk^rard de Nerval, and He-
fiioreau, whose writings are
DO gross for quotation, al-
noo^ is given to show that

their experience of the effects of
doubt resembled that of the rest.
All, with the exception of M. Sobe-
rer, who is the editor of the French
paper Lo Temps, have passed into a
world whore doubt is no longer possi-
ble — ^two of them by their own hand,
and two more by violent deaths which
they had gone to meet rather from
weariness of life than from enthusiasm
for the cause for which they fought.

There is only one of the whole
number, Maine de Biran, whose death
was thoroughly satisfactory; and he,
thougli certainly to be reckoned among
the victims of doubt, which clouded
the best years of his life, and from
which he only very slowly worked his
way to freedom, is introduced rather
in the way of contrast to the othei
philosophers and especially to Jouf-
froy. The great differonce in his case
lay in two things, that he paid more
attention to the moral nature of man,
and did not so wholly subordinate the
desire of the goo J to the search after
the true, and that he was on his guard
against that pride of intellect which
we see so rampant in his fellow-phi-
los »phers. While all the most cele-
brated men of Paris were paying
court to him, and although, even be-
fore he had published anything be-
yond some short metaphysical trea-
tises, M. Royer Collard cried, " He is^
the master of us all," and M. Cousin
pronounced him to bo tha greatest
French metaphysician since Male-
branche, his own private refiection
was : " Pride will be the ruin of my
life, as long as I do not seek from on
high a spirit to direct mine, or to take
its place." Yet it was not till his fif-
ty-second y<jar, after many years- vain
pursuit of truth in different systems
of sensualistic and rationalistic phi-
losophy, and of happiness first in
pleasure and then in study and retire-
ment, that he set himself resolutely to
try surer means. " Not finding," he
wrote in May, 1818, ^'anything satis-
factory either in myself or out of my-
self, in the world of my ideas or in
that of ol^ects, I have beea for i

554

Ffclim of DoiOl

time past more determined to look for
that fixed resting-place which has be-
come the need of mj mind and of my
heart, in the notion of the Absolute,
Infinite, and Unchangeable Being.
The religious and moral beliefs
which reason does not create, but
wliich are its necessary basis and sup-
port, now present themselves to me as
my only refuge, and I can find no true
knowledge anywhere than just there,
where befoi'c, with the philosophers,
I found only dreams and chimeras.
My point of view has altered with
my disposition and moral character.''
From this time the progress upward
was steady. We find notices in his
journal of earnest prayer, of daily
meditation, of study of the gospels and
the Imitation of Chiist. Four years
of physical suffering and outward trials
deepened the work of conversion, and
were passed with Christian resignation.
The last words that he wrote were
woi-ds of certainty and peace : '* The
Clirisiian walks in the presence of
God and with Grod, by the Mediator
whom he has taken as his guide for
this life and the next.'' The A ni dc
la Religion of July 24th, 1824, contain-
ed the notice : •* Maine de Biran ful-
filled his Christian duties in an edify-
ing manner, and received the sacra-
ments at the hands of his pastor, the
cure of St. Thomas d'Aqnin."

Tiit^odore de Jouffi-oy, if his life had
not been suddenly cut short, would
probably have had the same happi-
ness. Af^er havijig devoted his im-
mense powers of m nd to the study
and dissemination of sceptical phi-
losophy fi*om 1814 to 1839, when bad
health forced him to resign the pro-
fessor*? chair, he had begun to sotlcn
his tone, to speak respectfully of re-
vealed religion, and to look wistfully
and hopefully to it for the solution of
the great problems which it had been
the business and the torture of his life
to iuvestigate by the unaided light of
his own intellecL He had convers-
ed with Monseigneur Cart, the bishop
of Nliues, and had said to him, '* I am
not now one of those who think that

modem societiefl can dowitboa
ianity ; I would not write in tl
to-day. You have a grand no
fulfil, monseigneur. Ah ! on
teach the gospel well" 1
pleasure in seeing his dangl]
paring herself for her fir
munion ; and speaking about
of Lamennais to the clergyn
was instructing her, he Kaid
deep sigh, *^ Alas ! M. le (
these systems lead to n<Mhir
ter — a thousand times bett
good act of Christian faitli
cure lefl his room with goc
of his conversion, and in th*
that the faith of bis childh
come to life again in his bea
before he could see him ag
put these hopes to the test, Jou
pired suddenly and without
warning on the 1st of March,

Two or three of the Fren
had time to ask for a priest, <
mit one when, in the hopitals
their excesses had brought the
ter of Charity proposed it. L
outwardly at least sceptical am
to the last, received a doubtful
tion fi*om a priest, who came v
dying man was insensible.*
the rest even as much as t
wanting.

We have not space to go int<
tails of these melancholy histor

• We haTe used Uili expresilnn, AlUmoi
the letUT uf K.ith r Sc.in>» P il>liahe4 I
Jniirnul Srlcnu e Ke I«, and HfUrvartl In
t*ditioii of Father Ctirci's K.iiti r<l Aneoui
p<)ur*«', bt.>c:%u9v we a{rc« wi
that tills simple and inoit«st letler U **<
liei an.L dflil>cn»U; invt-ntions, and a »he«
fniiii l»e/iniiiii{{ to en I ;" hut becauM Lee
tcr« ill Uie )xt;innini; of l:«3t an I hit coqI
the com|Ml^iU<lll »r I1I4 Ian poem, the ft;
the C(>:iclii<U<m of whic-i w;is dU-tate<l a ft
fiirv hU death, bcrm to iiu>;/e«t the inelaneh
tivv i-ither ut u fel^;iinl ronveridon or of a
to scepticism. He told Fatlier Sctr|n mtn
e<l hiiii*elf t4i be prquref Tir conreftslon 1
been hanl«hetl fruin hl» Father's hoaae; 1
was nnw iveiilteut, and was about to pub
which w-iiild 9hiifr his alterated KnUan
aumtlnt; to notice tliat to the stal.l aa
QuarU>rtjr He view, an wrll m to Gl >brrtl, t
preat an op|iurt unity to be lovtof iwllia(*
Acv.-ordiiiKly, uu ni» other irroaiid Uiaa %
Pcirpa repe itol im toUl Aim fry l^»p%ri
letters OHitnulict, an.l Uiat b* wat ou| qi
in piesrtini.' at iib a^ auil d««crlMi|< bte 1
tra yean after hi* Inlirvltv wltk Um, tt

Vietimi of Doubt.

555

give a few extracts in illas-
' the keen regret with which
ims of doubt look back to the
convictions of their youth
cheerlessness and misery of
to which they have reduced
88, and of the involuntary
irhich, even while refusing to
) the teaching of the church,
forced to pay to it. Here is
9 reminiscence of the happy
oitb : ^ Born of pious parents
i country where the Catholic
\ still full of life at the begin-
bis century, I had been early
x>nsider man's future and the
ly own soul the chief business
ad all my subsequent educa-
led to confirm these serious
IDS. For a long time, the be-
hristianity had fblly answered
wants and all the anxieties
eh dispositions introduce into
To these questions, which
rere the only questions that
occupy man, the religion of
^rs gave answers, and those
I believed, and, thanks to my
y present life was clear, and
I saw the future that was tofol-
read itself out without a cloud.
LS to the path that I had to pur-
is world, at ease as to the goal
it was to conduct me in the
derstanding the phases of life
h in which they are blended,
oding myself, understanding
:ns of Grod for me, and loving
the goodness of his designs, I
»py with the happiness that
rom a iirm and ardent faith in
le whicii solves all the great
s that can interest man.^' Ills
\ liveliness of which hod been
it shaken by an indiscriminate
of moJem literature during
r part of his classical studies at
;ave way entirely before the

)bertt*s d«<cripUon, and calls tho letter
« of aodncUy beyond h11 common efforts
.** The habitual luendncity iu l^opardPs
Ua offer, while an unbeliever, to be or-
^d«r to hold a benefice which he Intended
\g a f^w Mcu9M to have served by an-
il unrortonalely not Improbable that hit
VM onl J prettadtd.

lectures of M. Cousin in the Ecole
Normale at Parts, to which he was
transferred in 1814, and the combined
influences of flattery and ridicule with
which his sceptical fellow-students
there assailed him. Ho describes the
terrible struggle between " the eager
curiosity which could not withdraw
itself from the consideration of objec-
tions which were scattered like dust
throughout the atmosphere that he
breathed," and on the other hand the
influences ^ of his childhood with its
poetic impressions, his youth with its
pious recollections, the majesty, antiq-
uity, and authority of the faith which
he had beeu taught, and the rising in
revolt of the whole memory and imag-
ination against the incursion of unbe-
lief which wounded them so deeply."
His faith was gone before he realized
the loss : some time aflcrward he thus
painted the horrors of the discovery :
" Never shall I forget that evening in
December when the veil that hid my
unbelief from myself was rent I still
hear my footsteps in the bare narrow
apartment, in which I continued walk-
ing long afler the hour for sleep. I still
see that moon half-veiled by clouds
which at intervals lit up the cold win-
dow-panes. The hours of night glided
by, and I took no note of them. I was
anxi> lusly followingmy train of thought,
which descended from one stratum to
another toward the depth of my con-
sciousness, and scattering, one after
another, all the illusions which had
hitherto concealed it from me, made its
outline every moment more visible.
In vain did I try to cling to these resi-
dues of belief as a shipwrecked sailor
to the fragments of his ship ; in vain,
alarmed at the unknown void in which
I was about to be suspended, I threw
myself back for the last time toward
my childhood, my family, my country,
all that was dear and sacred to me :
the irresistible current of my thought
was too strong. Parents, family, re-
collections, beliefs— it forced me to
quit alL The analysis was continued
with more obstinacy and more severity
in proportion as it approached its term,

6S6

Vidtmi of DoutL

and it did not pause till it had reached
it, Tiien I was aware that in my in-
most self there was no longer anything
left standing. It was an appalling mo-
ment, and when, toward morning, I
threw myself exhausted on my bed, I
seemed to see my former life, so smil-
ing and so full, effaced, and another
gloomy and desolate lire opening be-
hind me in which I was henceforth to
live alone — alone with my fatal tliouglit
which had just banished me thither,
and which I was tempted to curse."

A few yeai-s afler this crisis in Jouf-
froy's life, the same sort of catastro-
phe was experienced in a distant coun-
try by anoth r highly gifled soul, and
wonderfully similar is the victim's de-
scription of it Leopardi, the rival,
in tlie opinion of many of his coun-
trymen, of Tasso in poetry and of Ga-
lileo in philosophy, in whom a prodig-
ious industry wa^K unitcfl in rare com-
bination to a subtle intellect and a re-
fined imagination, who was reading
Greek by himself at eight years old,
and befoitj lie was nineteen was vers-
ed in several oriental languages, was
cngagtMl in literary cori-esponrl(Mice
with Niebuhr, Boissonado, and Bun-
sen, and was the author of numerous
translations from the ehvssics, a valua
bio translation of Porphyry on Ploti-
nus, and an erudite historical essay
in which there are citations from four
hundred ancient authors — had, like
•louffi-oy, prepared tiie way for his fall
by an overweening eontiJence in his
own great intellectual jK)wers and
by a recklessly excessive devotion to
Htiidy. To this was added the chafing
of disappointed ambition, and irritation
against his father for refusing to give
him the means of leaving home. His
ruin was completed by the conver^ii-
tion of Pietro Giordani, an apostate
Benedictine monk, wlio soothed and
condoled with him, flattered his vanity
by telling him that ** if Dante was the
morning star of Italy's sky, Leopardi
was the evening star*, ' and succeeded
in inoculating him with his own scep-
ticii^m, which in himself was mere
•hallow impiety, but in the deeper

mind of his pupil, led, if hii
can be trusted, to as hopelei
plete a disbelief of God, the
immortality, as is possible f
man being to bring himself t
In a letter of March 6th, 18
friend and seducer, he says : **
dow being open one of these «
while I was gazing on a pun
a beautiful moonlight, and lis
the distant barking of dos^ !
to see images of former time
me, and I felt a shock in n
I cried out, like a convict, beg!
don of nature, whose voice 1
to hear. At that instant, as
glance back on my former
stood, frozen with terror, unal
agine how it would be (K>ssib
port life without fancies anc
affections, without imaginat
without enthusiasm — in a wo
out anything of all that, a 3^
filled up my existence and 1
still happy, notwithstanding r
Now I am withered up lik^
no emotion finds an entrance 1
er into my poor soul, and t
eternal and supreme |)Ower
annihilated in me at my pn^
He was but twenty-two the
through the seventeen years
shattered constitution histcii,
ever speaking of life as an a:
a burden, sometimes proud!
ing that he would not bend 1
WfMght, sometimes passionatel
for symjialhy and love, but al
curring to this sad refrain : *•
of mortals, when youth has p
never tinged with any dawi
widowed to the end, and the
the only end to our nighL"
prehend, I know only one thii
others draw some profit fro
ycissitudes and passing exist
may be so, but for me life is a;
We have seen the account j
the French philosopher Joaf
the Italian poet Leopardi of U
ings on waking up to the kn
that the faith of their chiidh
passed away ; let ns compare <
Buch czpcrieuoe^ that of the

Vietiwu of DouhU

557

. "For some time, my
' he writes to the lacly to
IS afflnnced, " I have been
I studying the philosophy
d I am bound to commu-
J a conclusion which I am
t a£Pect you as deeply and

as it has myself. It is
nnot be certain whether
1 truth is really the truth
ppearance. In this last
ith that we sought afler
v'ould be nothing at all af-
jid it would be useless to
lire a treasure which it
npossible to carry to the
his conclusion does not
heart, do not laugh at a
n it has deeply wounded
) most sacred to him. My
ly aim hcts vanished^ and I
Since this conviction en-
lind, I have not touched
I have traversed my
liave placed myself by an
»r, I have run along the

interior disturbance has
visit smoking-rooms and
t relief. I have been to

and the concert to dissi-
nd. I have even played
\\xt in spite of all, in the
. this agitation, the one
: occupied my whole soul

with anguish was this :
»ur noble and only aim has

A few years of the repe-
is sorrowful wailing, and
rriting to his sister, " You
jvery thing to save me that
r a sister could do, every-
tlie power of man could
t is, that nothing can help

earth," he escaped from
3 before the Judgment-seat
band.

t give one more of the
ring expressions of regret
the volume abounds. We
1 to regard Santa Rosa
lore profound compassion
ler victims, on account of
id tender piety of his ear-
lod the absence in hun of

the arrogance and scorn that overflows
in the others in the midst of their
sufferings. All who knew him agreed
that it was hardly possible to know
him without loving him. Unfortu-
nately, his struggles in the cause of
Italy threw him into close association
with many wh.o had mistaken infidelity
for liberty. Still more unfortunately,
he contracted a close intimacy with
M. Cousin, and soon began to love him
more than truth and than God, and
under the blighting influence of his
teaching his own faith disappeared.
M. Cousin has published his letters
with frequent and large omissions, but
there remains abundant evidence that
he was always regretting the past
The following passage occurs after
something omitted: "O my frieod,
how unfortunate we are in being only
poor philosophers, for whom the con-
tinuance of existence after death is
only a hope, an ardent desire, a fer^
vent prayer ! Would that I had the
virtues and the faith of my mother I
To reason is to doubt ; to doubt is to
suffer. Faith is a Bort of miracle.
When it is strong and genuine, what
happiness it gives I How often in my
study I raise my eyes to heaven, and
beg God to reveal me to myself, but
above all. to grant me immortality I"
Twice in his life — when in prison in
Paris with the exoectation of being
given up to the Piedmontese police,
which would have been to be sent to
the scaffold, and again when beginning
a serious philosophical work — he re-
turned to a better mind. Whether
time and grace to return once more
were given him, behind the Greek
battery in the isle of Sphacteria, where
he fell fighting bravely, we cannot telL
-^ Besides the implicit homage to the
faith involved in such regrets of the
past as we have been witnessing, the
writings of most of these philosophers
and poets contain many testimonies
to their involuntary acknowledgment
of the claims of the revealed system
which they had abandoned. We will
cite only one, itom a discourse of
Jouffroj on his nsiial sumect, the

Viaimi of Dwk.

problem of the destiny of man: '^ There
is a little book which children are
made to learn, and on which they are
questioned in church. Read this little
book, which is called the Catechism ;
you will find in it an answer to all the
questions that I hare proposed — all
without exception. Ask the Christian
whence the human nice comes, he
knows ; whither it is going, he knows.
Ask this poor child, who l*as never in
liis life dreamed of it, to what end he
exists here below, and what he will be-
come after death ; he will give you a
sublime answer, which he will not
comprehend, but which is not the less
admirable. Ask him how the world
was produced, and for what end ; why
God placed animals and plants in it ;
how the earth was peopled, wh ther
by one family or several; why men
speak different languages; why they
suffer ; >» hy they contend ; what will
be the end of it all — he knows. The
origin of the world, the origin of the
human race, the question of races, the
destiny of man in this life and in the
other, the relation of man to God, the
duties of man to his fellows, the rights
of man over creation — he is acquaint-
ed with all ; and when he is grown up,
he will be equally frcc from hesitation
about natural rights, political rights,
and the right of nations ; for all this is
the outcome and clear and spontaneous
product of Christian doctrine. This is
what I call a great religion ; I recog-
nize it by this sign of its not leaving
unanswered any of the questions which
interest humanity.*'

Edmond Schcrer and Friedrich
Sdiiller, as well as Lord Byron, differ
from the other instances in never hav-
ing known the true faith ; but they
sliow that the loss of a firm hold of
those fragments of Christianity that are
retained outside of the fold leads to.
something of the same result as the loss
of the faith. The sketch of M. Sche-
rer's life is very interesting, for it shows
the inevitable result of Protestantism
in a highly logical and reflective mind
which refuses the alternative of sub-
missioD to the Catholic Church. His

installation in the cliiur of tl
the Evangelical Seminary of <
1844 was hailed as a triuoi
the devout adherents to the
religion, who lo iked to him
vincible champion against t
anism prevailing all around,
himself to the work of provi
spiration of Scripture witho
recourse to the authority of
olle Church, and the result, t
ing through various phases
mentaiism and eclecticism, w
him in such conclusions as
Bible has so little of a mono;
spiration, that there ore wr
canonical the inspiration of
much more evident tlmn in si
biblical writings ;** and fin
Protestantism and Catholicis
lanity and Judaism, are onl
tio IS more or less exact of i
object and phases in a great i
of progressive spiritualizati
morality itself is only rela
that absolute certainty of an
a dream. lie may well say.
lately said : ^ Alas ! blind pr
we are, bboring at the ovei
the past, we are engaged i
which we do not understn
yield to a power of which it
times that we are the victim
as the instruments. The ten
whose formulas we wield c
while we are crushing others
The moral of these and o
histories — the moral of Fp
Francis Newman and CI
that as Gt>d never made his
for pf»rplexity and anguish,
made them for doubt, and n
provided a secure asylum fit
in ignorance or thoughtless
in a system of divinely gi
authority. The lesson from
esis of doubt is the c sncl
Augustino Thierry : ** I havt
an infallible autliority, I have
rest for my souL I open my
I see one only authority, lb:
Catholic Church. I believe
Catholic Church teaclies; J
her Credo."

Wlkat Mo$t Bgoiem tk$ Beart of Maul

TmiiUted from the Qerman.

WHAT MOST REJOICES THE HEART OF MAN?

J two days before the holj
J of the old year, and a very
)on, when Martin (a farmer,
heaven had granted a rich
> reward ,him for the faithful
his land) entered the house,
ken his grain to the market-
, thanks to the brisk demand,
i with it at an unusually high
nd now, returning home with
rse, he called his wife, and
at the money before her on
I, said laughingly : ^ Look,
eit will give us a rare treat !
okest thou, mother ? What
ices the heart of man? I
ething that shall make me

irtin !'* replied the wife, " i&
>and, then. But this whole
oy heart been very heavy;

if I made something very
d, I don't think it would go
;ht spot ;" and when Martin
ly, she continued: "Thou

been gone long yesterday
vhen in came our neighbor's
^ing and mourning, and said
was like to die. a*>d would I
sake come to their assistance
lim something nourishing. I
lerstand, then, how matters
I taking with me just what-
e was in the house, I ran
be hut O dear God ! what
IS there ! The man ky on a
Wy so white and feeble ; the
bielt beside him, crying and
ind their children hung round
-naked, and living pictures of
od not a bit of bread in the
me. And indeed, Martin, that
only home where such want
n't know, but it seems as if I

ought not to enjoy one cheerful boor
while so much wretchedness surrounds
us."

While Martin let his wife speak out
her thoughts, his eyes were misingly
bent before him. Then he rose, and
grasping Agnes's hand, exclaimed :
** Now I know what to do, mother I A
joyful heart will I have, for doing
good to others gladdens the heart more
than wine and good cheer. Let us
sec, then, what the dear God has given
us." And now he counted out from
the money first the rent due to his
landlord, then enough to pay all that
he owed, and lastily all that must go
toward preparing for the next year s
crop. Still there remained a pretty
little sum, so he said : "Now, mother,
count up the poor of our village, and
heat the oven, and bake for every
grown person two big loaves, and for
every child a smaller one ; and then
send the bread round, adding to each
loaf a jug of wine and two florins.
Then when the people have a Merry
Christmas, and can say grace without
tears, our hearts will be light, I am
thinking, even if we set nothing on the
table besides our usual fare."

Now when Agnes heard her hus-
band speak thus, her heart grew very
happy, and she said yes to everything,
and shook flour into the bread-trough,
and baked all day and all night. So
on that day when the church sings
" Gloria in excelsis Deo I" there was
not one in that whole parish who had
not enough to eat ; and many a one
who for a long time had not tasted
wine refreshed himself on that day,
thanking with heart and lips the farm-
er and his wife. These two had merely
their usual homely fare upon th« taUey

660

What Most Bejateti ths Heart t^ Mm.

but within their breasts were joyful
hearts and the consciousness of a good
deed.

So far, so good ; but something else
happened afterward ; for as, according
to the proverb, a pleasure never comes
alone, so have ^ood works an especial
power of multiplying themselves. And
of that we are now going to hear
somctiiing.

When it came to the landlord's cars
that his farmer, who was no capitalist,
had made a Merry Christmas for him-
self in the love of the holy Christ-
child, he was well pleased, and
thought to himself that he too might
try sometiiing of the same sort. There-
fore he appointed a day (the octave
of the blessed Christmas, New-Year's
day) when all the poor in his parish
should he invited to the castle. In the
hall was a long table covered with a fine
white cloth for the poor people, and
a smaller one for himself and his fam-
ily. At this small table he placed
Farmer Martin and his wife Agnes,
and near the head too, which has no
small significance among knights and
noble: lien. But he said that he hon-
ored such excellent people as his own
friends and relations, believing that
the heart makes better nobility than a
long pedigree.

When now the table was filled with
the sons and daughters of poverty,
grace was said by the chaplain, while
all remained standing and joined de-
votedly in his prayer. Then were
bread -cakes set on the board, and huge
pieces if roast beef, and for each per-
son a bumper of good old wine ; but if
any one was ill and could not come to
the feast, then was his share despatch-
ed to his home, with a beautiful gold
piece and a friendly greeting from his
gracious lord. So all the parish poor
had a second time plenty to eat and
drink, and more than one enjoyed him-
self better on that day than ever be-
fore in his life.

When the people had had a good
dinner, they thought the fesist was at
an end, and wished to express their
thanks conrtcoiislj to the hoBt, bat he

begged them to wait a littU
of an hour lonsrer, for somel
was coming. Then four lott
were placed on the table, on
men, another for the women
for boys, and a fourth f
and when all the guests had
ranged according to age an
one after another put his ha
vase and drew forth a nut
fit>een, another twenty-one,
two, and so on until each pc
a number. Tlien they lookc
numbers and thought, Wliat
all mean ? and they waited f
pectation.

Suddenly a side door op4
the servants brought in a
frame, on the four sides of wl
all sorts of garments, one
men, another for women, and
boys and girls, as at a fair ; ai
thing was new and neat an*
such as peasant-folks like toi
a number was fastened on es
Some one called oat, ** Now
the numbers tliat you iiave
hands." The men looked
<\t each other, as if to say, *
really mean it 'f but the woo
more clever, and had soon fou
and colored skirts, aprons, s
neckerchiefs, and handkerc
match their numbers, and wc
ing their husbands and chi
their search. Before long
single thread hung on the fn
every one possessed his a
prize, and was rejoicing over
really seemed as if to each pei
fallen the very thing he most
Of course many were there w
in need of everything.

When now the time for leav
came, and the happy people
their gracious lord in their bt
ner, he shook hands with each
a good old friend or father
same moment slipping into tl
of every man a thaler. Th
there fresh nyoicings and
thanks, and the worthy folk
not soon have made an end
their benefactor had not qai^j

7%e Republic of Andorra.

561

ihroagfa the crowd who blessed
id so eluded their ackaowledg-

then their hearts being full to
wing, thej longed to have some
:o their gratitude ; so the j seat-
farmer and his wife in two
placed them in a prettj wagon,
[ji they harnessed themselves;

and the worthy couple, in spite of ex-
postulation, were borne home in tri-
umph. Such rejoicings had not been
seen for many a long day, and even

now do the people of B talk of

brave Martin and his excellent wife
Agnes ; of the feast and the lottery
and the dollars of their kind and gra-
cious lord in the castle yonder.

From The Reader.

THK REPUBLIC OF ANDORRA.

! Val d' Andorra lies on the
m side of the central Pyrenees,
tn two of the highest mountains,
dadetta and the Moncal. It is
id on the north by the depart-
>f Ariege ; on the south by the

of Barrida, the territory of
and part of the viscounty of
X); on the east by the valley
ol and part of the Cerdana ; on
at by the viscounty of Castelbo,
(leys of San Juan and Terrem,
nca de Buch, and the communes
uid Tor. The principal moun-
Bses into France are those of
, Soldeu, Fontargente, Siguer,
Arbella, and Rat ; thostf com-
iting with Spain are Port Negre,
a, and Portella. Some of these
ly passable during part of the
The greatest length of the ter-
is about forty miles ; the great-
sadth about twenty-four miles,
irantry is mountainous, but in-
some excellent pasturage. The
\ summits visible are Las Minc-
asamanya, Saturria, Montclar,
ilian, and Jugldr. The princi-
CTB are the Valira, the Ordino,
e Os, none of which are navi-

At the greatest elevation the
■emains upward of six months.
mer the rains are very frequent.
iritj of both fdr and water ren-

TOL XT. 86

ders the climate very healthy, and the-
inhabitants are remarkable for their
longevity, many living to the age of
one hundred. Devonian beds lie un-
conformably on upper silurian, which
latter forms a valley of depression,
having the town of Andorra in its
synclinal axis. There are many mines
producing iron of the best quality ;
one of lead, several of alum, quartz,
slate, soTQC quarries of jaspers, and
several kinds of marble. Besides the
trees common to Europe, the flora in-
cludes the cacao or chocolate. There
are, likewise^ many medicinal roots
and plants. Wheat, barley, rye, and
hemp are cultivated ; and grapes, figs,
dates, and olives are also seen. In
the low parts of the south tobacco is
much grown. Indian com is only
occasionally to be met with. The
fauna include the bear, wild boar,
wolf, boquetin {Capra Pyrenaicaf),
chamois, mule, fox, blackcock, or gal-
Una de montej squirrel, hare, partridge,
pheasant, and several species of eagles ;
there are also a great many blackbirds
and nightingales. The population of
the whole republic has been estimated
as low as 5,000, and even higher than
15,000, but it probably does not ex-
ceed 10,000; that of the capital has
been reckoned as high as 2,800, but.
this probably refers to the whole par*

$6S

TTu Sepyhlic of Andorra*

bli, and is, even then, greatly over-
edtimaled. The name Andorra lias
been derived from the jVrabic, but it ia,
without doubt, considerably older than
the time of the Moor?. It is probably
fmm tbe Oaebc andobhar^ an-dour^
whicb wlU variously tran^late^ '* the
water/' ** the territory," " the border
of a country**' In the Roman period
the Vfd d*Andorm formed part of the
country of the Ceretani, wlio gave
lifbeir namu to tlu^ Cerdanu; and, at
tJie time of the Goths, of tbe dii*triet
called Marea de Espana. It waa the
last tract of country of whieh llie
; Moors obtained f»o^^ession in Cata-
'lonia, and tlie first which they aban-
doned. There are traditions of the
republic even prior lo the time of
Charlemaji:ue. Catalonia^ being in-
vaded by the Moors, tlie Andorrans,
in 778» aaked aid of the emperor, who
, thereujxio eros^^ied llie Pyi*enee^t and
ICfaavan^ unlrcd his force.!* with those of
Catalonim which consisted principally
of tire mountaineers of Andorra, alter
a brilliant campaign drove the ^IiTJora
to the left luink of the Ebro. Having
established a military organization for
the defence of tbe territory, Charle-
magne recoj!;tnzed certiiiu ri;^hts in
favor of the Andormns ; but, at the
same time, ^ve to the see of Urgcl
the tithes of the six parishes into
which the valley of Andorra wa^
divided. The 3Ioor8 having again
invmled the territory, the emperor
despatched hi« son^ Louis le Debon.
naire, who drove out the Moors, atul
coded the govciXMgniy of the valley lo
Siscbertus, tirst bishop of Ur^el. The
charter bears the dale of 803, and the
signature of Ludovicus Pius, the name
by which Loui^ has always been kiit>wn
to the republic, Charles the Bold
having illegally granted to the Counts
of Urge] tlic sovereignty over the binds
of the re[)ublic, another dis[)ute arose
between th»^ bishop and the counts,
and the independence of the valley
was again disturbed. Upon this the
bishop asked assistance of Raymond
nf Foix, and an alliance was entered
into by which Uie independence of the

valley wad vi^sted jcuotly in the Hoqh
of Foix and tiie see of Ur^^U s»ttl
Raymond forthwith expelled the Ctumti
of Urgel from Andorra. Thi* look
place in the Iwelllh "ct^tury, TU
bishop failing to durrtfftder this siaielT
of the TCptibUcan l»iiil<^ Bemaid «
Foix, in 1241, laid siets^ io \ht aij
of Urgelp and tbe buhop wai Ml
only compelkxl to yield lo Uie d^
manda of the count, bnt iit*o,
a eertiiin time^ to [ '\hb paint

nititication of the i of IJbi

house of Foix in tlie Joint tavcn^
tj of th<? republic. The ei^nveate
having been again Tiohuecl ly lb
pee of Urgi I, it was finaDy toUUiii
1278, thtit the right uf »ux>*niiiik
should be po»<*os5e<l jointJy by tbf
Biisbop of t)i*gel and the Caaou ^

Foix. This ti'eaty r- *» •' i/ kdt-

pendouco of the uid m

known to the peoph- <u vntigna Ij
the name of ** Parialge*,** It ^tfptli^
ed that the republic sboald |«y ift*
nuully a tribute of 900 frmoc^lolki
Counts of Foix, and half ibai anifioii
to the Bcc of Urgel, and Uutf mk
etiould have? the prtvik|^ of mmdm^
uig one of the two ofllwr? «W
viguicrs* Thn hoii -*

iug uuitefl, Hr*t wij
and tlien to that of > '
tellvel Rt>snn»*A» wa-
in the house of Bourbon,
protectorate becamr, -^^ '
Bixteenth centurj', m
iTument of Fnince i*?! ;
Urgel Oulln- 2^tbof M
ing a treaty wat con- ?u i
the republic dhould ? r, r, lu

tribute lo the p
department of

which it wa;^ to iccuUi: ^>to4^ ojtMm^-
eial privileges as to the frr* ef|yarl if
certain gXHi^* It wad fUitlier di|it>
latful tliat one of tlie vij^uieni fi Al
republic should b« cImmii froa ilw 4^
partment of Arir^e, and ibal tlint^
utie^ of the vail 1 }'CtHf Ukf

an oath to t!u' t fli.- i-jtri*^^

partrat^L

tixed hb na^i. .u ..,, ,,,,^,.,,^, .

of Charleintgne. TheprivikgitAoflhi

The Republic of Andorra.

563

rans have been several times
rledged by France and Spain,
he war with Spain did not in-
be neutrality of the republic-
J4, a French column having
ited into the centre of Andorra,
purpose of laying siege to the

(Jrgel, the Andorrans sent a
tion to assert the neutrality and
idence of the valley, and Gren-
larlet gave immediate orders to
iw. The Andorrans have nev-
3n part in the wars of their
)r9. The rich pasturages be-

Ilospitalet, in France, and
in Andorra, in former times
d the cupidity of the people of
ilet, who have several times
)red to take forcible possession
a: the Andorrans having ap-
» the law, judgment was given
• favor in 1835 by the Court
if Toulouse. There is no form
•eignty in Europe exactly simi-
lat of Andorra. The republic
med by a syndic, a council of
four, together with two vigui-
magistrates, and two judges,
ench government and the see
1 possess a co-ordinate right of
EUiun over the appointment of
idic The twenty-four mem-
he council consist of the twelve
who represent the six parishes
Qunes, and the twelve consuls
Id office during the preceding
Chese latter are called council-
ine of the viguiers is appointed
French government, the other
Bishop of Urgel. Tiie former
?n for life, and is generally a
ite of the department of Arioge;
jr holds office for three years
id is chosen from among the
of the republic He is not re-

be an educated man. The
alone exercise the criminal

y. Civil justice is rendered
other judges, one of whom is
id by each viguier from a list
embers, drawn up and present-
he syndic. In both criminal

1 cases the judges are guided
;j, common sense, and custom

only, and yet no complaints are heard
of. Parties to suits, both criminal and
civil, have the right of appearing by
counsel, who is styled rahonadory or
speaker. The decision of the criminal
courts is communicated to the council,
who reassemble to receive it. The
sentence of the court, once proclaimed
by the council, is irrevocable, and is
put in execution within twenty-four
hours. The criminal court is rarely
convoked. There are few crimes com-
mitted in the republic. One man was
executed for murder about six years
since. The expenses of justice are
paid partly by the delinquents, partly
by the counciL The armed forces con-
consist of six companies, one for each
parish, and scarcely amount to 600,
but in case of need all the inhabitants
are soldiers. There is no enlistment ;
one individual between the age of
sixteen and sixty is chosen from each
family. There is no national flag,
and no drums are used. The ser-
vice is unpaid. Public instruction is
in the worst state. The priest of each
parish is obliged to provide a school in
his own house, but no one is compelled
to send his children. Those who de-
sire a better education for their chil-
dren send them either to France or
Catalonia. The only form of religion
is the Roman CathoUc Political ref-
ugees from Spain and France are
always hospitably received. Foreign-
ers resident in the republic pay yearly
five Catalan sous, and enjoy all the
privileges of the natives, except that
of holding any public office. If a
foreigner marries an heiress, he is ac-
counted a citizen, but he must first ob-
tain an authorization from the council-
general. The Andorrans are some-
what above the ordinary size of Span-
iards. In stature they are thin and
wiry. In character they are active,
proud, industrious, independent, relig-
ious, faithful to their ancient customs,
and very jealous of their liberties.
They are inquisitive, great talkers, but
suddenly dumb and ignorant when they
imagine their interest at stake. Those
engaged in public affidrs are generally

564

fti JbpnA/ir €f

Lospitable, but most of the people are
rather suspicious of strangers. They
speak the Catalan dialect, which is a
compound of Ca^ till an and the ancient
Ian t^u ages of the south of France.
They aliK> use many modern French
word^, which they pronounce after their
own fashion. The people are poor, and
glory in their poverty, as they thereby
preserve their independence^ Should
they grow rich, Ihey would be sure to
be absorbed either by France or Spain.
A kr^re portion of the wealth of the
republic consists* in its flocks of sheepi
Each landowner is possessed of a con-
siderable flock. The price of a sheep
rangei^ from twelve to twenty fmncs.
The fleeces suffice to clothe the whole of
the male population. The exports into
Spain consist of iron, in large quanti-
ties, sheep, mulej?, and other cattle ;
cloth^i blankets, cheese, butter, and ex-
cel lent hams. Those into France in-
clude uutanned skin*', sheep, niule^,
calves and wool. The number of .^heep
and mules sent annually into Spain
and France amounts to 1,000. Con-
sidering the sire of the republic, the
imports from Spain are considerable :
they bclude some of the necessaries of
life, as com and salt. The only im-
ports from Franco are fish ar*d com-
pound liquors. There is a goovl deal
of contraband between the republic
and Spain and France* It consists
pnnci[>aJly in wmes, vinegar, salt, and
a small quantity of silk. The contm-
I bandistas between the valley and Spain
ai-e generally Spaniards. There are
[no land conveyances, and the transport
[of goods and meivhandise i:* carried on
[with horses and mules. There are
f0o restrictiotjs on commercci and no
I ttnmps ; and no passports are i"€quired.
{The republic coulains six parishes or
(eommnnes» namely, Andorra la Vie-
I ja, San Juliiide Loria, Canillo, Ordi-
l|io^ En Camp, and La Massana. Tliero
I Are also thii-ty-four villages and ham*
Elets, the chief o^ which are Kscaldai^,
fSanta Caloma, and Soldeu. There are
nit {'e^w ancient remains in the repub-
' lie. The capital, Andorra la Vieja,
or "The Old/' is so called to distiu-

guish it from ADdarm in Sg

ince Teruel. There i» a |^

market^ and considerable

tninsacted in ira|iortcd

misrrable place^ wilh

the debris of schii

gene rally without

civil wars it suffered j

tile attacks, and (he

merce. The palace,

Valle^ is an ancient built!

ed of rough pieces of gmnlt^

^ad^ is heavy and mu^sivo

only three wiudows^of uneql

sions, with some louvers; 1

angle is a turret pierced j

holes, and surmounted witl

Above the portal, which ra

porU cochttf^ \- ' * *<

consilii, fff/f^ J

an escutcheon ot \ (

the arms of the repi i i

of the palace is in :i

ruin. On the grouh i i i i

t tonal pnsion and t

members of the eo

ileg6 of putting up th<?ir hi

the sessions. The kildirii

grand acaie, with irnmeDj^e N

caldit>n3. A sUureiL»cv irhi

of antiquity, leails to tlie d

the first floor, wliere tlie txxu

it is a vast hall of an iiiitici»i

At one end is a chair Icir t

wlio sits as president of the |

along eicher wall are bend

for tlic twenty- four eotittcil

between the corrido i

Je^ns Christ. In ji i

hall arc preserved 1 1 <

govennnent, whicli «

of Charl<*magnc an

arc kejit in an armt

the wall, closed by

ters, where they hav«^ »"^

flinc^j the ex pulsion

cabinet has six ditfcr

which are kept by lb

of the six comm -

have been depar

cabinet has no on ur

be opened in tht? p

heads of rl

bound tob'

two wcid

(laihoKe Ohrktmoi.

565

of the connciL There are ^ye sessions
of the council annually, but when ne-
cessans extraordinary sessions are
also held. When the general council
is unable to assemble, the syndic gen-
eral, or, in his absence, the sub-syndic,
represent it, and act in its name ; some-
times, also, a junta general is con-
Toked, at which assist a consul, or a
congul and a councillor, for each parish.
In the juntas, mattera of minor inter-

est are discussed, and the consuls and
councillors who take part in them are
entrusted with the powers of their col-
leagues. To the general council per-
tains everything relating to police, and
all disputes in commercial matters.
The chapel is dedicated to Sa:i Ilero-
mengol, formerly Bishop of Urgol and
Prince of Andorra, and will repay a
visit.

CATHOLIC CHRISTjVIAS.

The evening of the last day of
the church's advent arrives. She
fEathers her ministers around her, and,
•inging hymns of glad expectation, they
remain in her temples, even until mid-
night. Let us listen to the grand har-
mony!

Divided into two vast bodies, they
petl forth the verses of the royal proph-
et m alternate chorus ; and who could
. tire hearkening ? Well does Durendus
wy, that "the two choirs typify the
u^els and the spirits of just men, while
th^ cheerfully and mutually excite
e«i other in this holy exercise." We
bnej ooTBelves among tlie choirs of
heaven, as St. Ignatius once was in
•pint, when he learned the method of
tltemate chanting.

Oh! whose heart does not yearn to-
ward the church in these her days
of longing I She has kid away from
her all that is dazzling and joyous;
TCt is she most charming. Anxious
vre,like a sun, bums over her, alter-
ing her color ; yet is she all beauty —
^Sh( and rich and warm — her aspect
teming with purity and love and in-
ipiration. ^ I am black, but beauti-
fcL'' (Cant. L 4)

It 18 midnight. Long since men
eeiaed from their labors. The din
of tnflk has been hushed for hoars.

Yet there is a sound through all the
world. From every city and town and
village, from spire-crowned hill and
from holy valley, from numberless
sweet nooks and by-ways, it swells
forth, the sound of a grand har-
mony, the voices of myriads chant-
ing. Now the tones speak of longing ;
now they tremble with expectation ;
then there is a burst of rapture fol-
lowing the mellow warbling of de-
sire. It is the voice of the church
longing for her Beloved! She siiall
be gratified, for even now there is a
knocking at her temple gates. The
chant is hushed, and a voice, gentle
as the lisping of a child, breiithes the
sweet entreaty, •* Open to me, my sis-
ter, my love, my dove, my undefiled ;
for my head is full of dew and my
locks of the drops of the night."
(Cant. V. 2.) Yes, lovely Babo,
gladly will the temple-doors open to
thee ; for many a long and weary
mile did thy mother journey with
thee beneath her heart!

Winter ruled the earth. Chill blew
the breezes, and coldness was over all
nature. Shivering had the aged saint
and Maiy asked for shelter, but the
inns were filled, and none in Bethlehem
would trouble to receive them. Riches
were not theirs, and all saw that the

566

CSaihaHe drutrnt*

unknown raolher's time was near;
bence, fearing I bey miglit have to
look to the ehild, they shut her
from their dwellings. The only pkce
of refuge her holy sponse could find
for his charge was ii cheerless stahle,
hollo wni from a roiij^h, cold rock*
Tlie ox and the ass were their only
earthly com j»an ions ; hay and straw
formed the rude coucli upon which
the mother brought forth her child
at midnight. Jesus! Saviour! she
wraps iheo ecantily in swaddling-
cloibes, and lnys thee shivcrhig in
a raangen Well then may the dew
and the drops of tlie night hang
heavy upon thy locks 1

But, though in Bethlehem tljese mi-
known tnivellers were ot it casts, Gk>d
did not deseil thojn* llie glimmer-
ings of adoring angeU' wings fell upon
tlie mother's eyes to comfort her heart,
fur there were angels near in numl>ens.
They hovered over and within the hut*
niaking it ring with the most blessed
hymn thai mortal or angehc ears had
ever heard : ** Glory to God iti tlie
highest, and on earth peace to men of
good-wilh**

Instantly upon this knocking tlie
church rises to open to her Beloved,
and now begins her joy. Now she
will celebrate his birthiluy, and her
heart leaps high in bidding him wel-
come. Her torches, her sanctuary
lamps, the countless candlci* on her
altars^ all are lighted with the speed
of L>ve ; their shining shows her spouse
that she was so full of expectiitiou* so
confident of his coming, tlmt she has
already cast away her weeds of mourn-
ing and desire, and has arrayed her
charms in her most precious robes.
Evergreens and tapesiry are twining
and glowing all about her — in her
idolieSy Qpon her piej-s, her arcades,
ber parapets, her cloister-galleries, her
massive stalls, her carved and fret toil
ceilings. Her altars and her sanctua-
ries have festoons and garlands, aiid
crowns of sweetest design, and veila
and hangings of choicest embroidery.
She peals her bells and sweeps her fin*
genB over her organ-keys^ and tunes her

many instnimentflt to fill h
with the raptir tii ^

" Gloria m ex

But let us viii'A
As we may behold
versa I church in ercfT
viMton, let U3 see how,
Uatliolie times, the sin
celobniled the birtlidaj
nare Eternal !

The few rich men i
sent stores of fiowerB
their conservatories to i
branches gathered In th
hidies have brouglic in '
naments, which they
paring for weeks, as
their new* bom Saviou
pjistor and many of hli
have been busy in the chttrc
disposing tlje decoratioiii WJ
ingenuity and Uistc*

^^ow It IB almost
skies are clear and
twinklir^g stars. Ice
stwam*, snow is over
and fields, and weighs dowi
Stillness is upon the til
the stillness of slumbera|
that something is
takes not plaee at ou
for lights are glimmer
cottage-windows, and,
cheerhil forms are seen |
fro. They arc all cxp
shall not lie delayed ; fi^
denly a merry ii*»al of bells I
them ; joyously it rings forti
soft, ijweet cjidencM!, and
ing hannony. It fN
streets and till:? the rrlj
It echoes r
over the ^j

streams^ reachmg ev^cnj
hamlets in the dki
and j<:»yotisly tlio
all:

VcAttc; mae In "^fc"S^

And the coltage^ioora an
open, and group* of iDen^
sally fortli^ gladly afafCHllifig
mas, Clirislmaa T
TUeti liw lapecs ftue og^

Catholic Christmas.

567

and the villagers all hasten forth with
holy eagerness to see their Jesas era-
died in the manger ; and, as thej di-
rect their steps toward the old church,
thej awaken the midnight echoes with
that svrcet old carol :

**Nnir tlu* clrclln}^ year hsth given
The Joy nil iieason, wben from heaven
Ufe deaiceuded to the earth
In the Bahe who took his hirth
From our swMt Lady !

"Behold hlra in the manger Uld,
Ownefl by the cattle of the shed,
Wlio know their Uod in meanest bands
Koiwathed by the tender hands
Of our sweet Lady I

"T?nw he smiles on Joseph blest ;

Nov he seeks his mother's breast ;

Now be sobs, and now he cries,

All beneath the guardian eyes

Of our sweet Lady I

• "Run, run, ye shephenls, haste and bring
Toor simple homage to nur King I
Te heaven-called watchem, haste and see
Oor Ood, meek-seated on the knee
Of our sweet Lady !"

Thus they stream along from every
cottage, along every i>atliway toward
the church, men, women, and little
duUren, singing and chatting happily.
Far off in the moonlit distance you
Ke Bmall parties hastening over the
white plains from their scattered homes
to romgle in the festival. How beaiiti-
fiiUj db they remind us of those hap-
py sliepherds who left their flocks near
•he* Tower of Ader." and went over
to Bethlehem, to see the word that had

The bells continue pealing out their
mosic to the midnight, and the church
coQtinaes filling. Listen to the half-
•Vprewed ejaculation of joyous sur-
pnie as each new group enters the
Wy» place and beholds its charming
Orations! Over every window's
corve, and hanging down by its sides,
> a mighty wreath of evergreens. In
faotrfevery hallowed niche lights are
^Kinung, and wreaths of foliage hang
wer it. The pillars are all twined
JWind and round, up to the very ceil-
^Dfe with ivy, holly, laurel, intermin-
|M with those berries that grow red
B winter. But who shall describe
tk ^ries of the sanctuary I The
ttcfa that rises over it flows with
tte folleflt folds of tapestry, white as

snow, save where they arc here and
there interwrought with flowers of
rose-hued silk and thread of gold,
and intertwined with holly and laurel,
and bouglis of the orange -tree with its
golden clusters. On the altar-steps
are vases filled with evergreens, slen-
der strings of ivy twisting around tall
branches and bending gnicefiilly be-
tween them down even to the floor.
The altar is crowded with lighted can-
dles, and along the intervals of the
candlesticks flow festoons of slender
branches, leaves, and flowers. A
stole of flowers decorates the very
crucifix ; the tabernacle sparkles in
its richest veil.

Oh ! in olden times even a village
church was grand beyond description ;
for then men took a pride in their
religion. They loved to see God's
Bride in bridal splendor ; they loved
to see the Queen in regal vesture :
they loved to see the Sister of the
Church in heaven with something like
heavenly glory around her. The rich
man gave of his abundance, the poor
man gave of his labor, ladies wrought
embroidery — all in holy unison strain-
ed every nerve to make her temples
beautiful.

Now the church has filled with
kneeling fonns. The rich and the
poor, the lady and the servant, the
laborers and they for whom they la-
bor, here kneel side by side, they
are all equal here, for they are all
alike, are God's own children, the
brethren of the Babe of Bethlehem.

The steeple-belLs have ceased to
peal, for not a single thought must
now wander outside. Eyes and ears
and heartland soul and tyary feeling
are intent upon tlie gmnd occurrences
within.

Presently blue clouds of sweet in-
cense are seen floating toward the
sanctuary, and modestly there comes
a youth swinging a silver censer; a
long procession of little acolytes, clad
in snow-white surplices and bearing
lighted tapers, follow him slowly ; a
saintly looking priest, in precious vest-
ments, closes the holy array. His.

CathoKe ChTi$ima$,

youtljful aUendants are chosen bovs
of bkmeleys life and pleading aspect :
and, indeed, tliey look pure and iuno-
cent and chcrub-like, iis I hey dispose
I themselves around the hclj place, and
knee! toward the altin\

Then amid half-suppm-'ised, rcjjent-
Unt criea lor " mere}' on us,' swelliop;
l-fbrth from I he ehoir, the psalm J8 »aid
— the psalm of preparation, of pnuse»
of hope, of humble eonfidence : the
confet^sion \^ made ; prayers for par-
don, lights and gracious hearing are
ref>eated. Then the priest aseendi
'* unto the altar of God/* and whispers
prayers* t*[>etiking rapturously of the
** Child that is born to us, the Son that
is given to us/* But look at hie eoun*
tenancc tw he returns slowly to ll>c
middle of the ahnr ; you can see that
he irt full of some grand event — his
soul, his heart, his feelings, alJ hold
jubilee. One more entreaty for mercy
rj|ieated again and again with pai^sion-
ate earnestness, and he raises his eye«
antl his arms as though about to ascend
in ecstasy, and. like one inspired* lie
breaks ibrth in the angelic liyrnn»
" Gloria in exeelgis Deo." It is the
signal of jubilee. Suddenly there is
a bur^t of many little bells, ^hflken
by the liands of the surpliced chil-
dren, ringing out their silver music
until the hymn is ended by the priest;
the oi*gan'a richest and fullest chords
are struck, swelling forth in harmony
like that which tlie rivers made in
Paradise when they sang their first
hymn of praise to him who set them
flowing, and the full choir of trained
voices burst forth ; ** Kt in terra j>ax
hominibus.'*

Truly you think yourself at Be tide-
be m, 1 1 seems as though the Child
were just burn — as though you heatnl
the heavenly hosts singing their gnirid
anthem — saw the shepherds wonder-
ing and adoring — beheld the Infant
lying in the manger, a fair, radiant,
etniling little Babe, with an old saint
beside it, leaning on his staff, and a
comely virgin, in a trance of mother-
ly affection, kissing its bright forehead,
So tliese villagers seem to feel it alL

ilgbl]

woi

A start of joy runs
assembly, a mdiano;
feature; friends kiiis each
Ihers kiss their ddldivn, i
their little ones ; a whi«f
soul to soul through all
** Pn\ hominibu^J

Then follow tl ^1

the gi'adual, the _

grand event. And tiuin ibtJ
bilee begins again, as the i
at the iiltar intones ^ Credo
Deura-" Who shidl tell tliol
reverence of each pixf^irate fm
all bow yet lower at the wof<"
still the mystery of the nig
ly the ot*gan warbles in ilA
kevB; from the richest voic
the choir sweetly flow tlio
Hon#> factas c^t.*' Every
fleets, and ^yf^tj heJirt \a mell

Then i*omes the offerfcirv;
[)reHL'nt, aeeordmg to Iheu*
meuns, make their t^tiTertng^
•* who serve the altar/ imi
jjoor. While the priest
fering Ujg paten with the lia*t i
chalice with wbe^ the vil
kneeling, make an
homage to their new-l
and mothers hfi ti*eir
heaven in spirit, pravTfl
may advance ** in wis^lom i
grace with God and m^nt
Child of Mjiry. Thoti
washing of the heads, wit]
priate pra^-ers j then
tas, the preface, the whiaji
for God's church, for fneo
facloi'H, for all the living I

The moment of eons
nigh. Bor^k-i arc laid
arc clasped upon the
head is bent- The pwc
the choir have U^en hu«l
silvery tones, munnunng^
moiT !!»offly, have at h-ngtlij
awr by llie ait

Go Ves! all

silence now seemi a
a breathlesa, palgolett,
spirit fllhng all \h\s le
cloud of God's gtory one
tabernacle. Yoti thiok yoa

fotk

«ht*di

Catholic Christmas.

569

most hear a spirit move, you feel as
though you were among the anj^els
when they waited breatliless to behold
the efre<*.t of the sublime utterance,
•*Let there be lio:ht," Bending low
in reverend humility, the priest in a
whi8|)er of awe speaks the almighty
wopis"T!ii3 is my body," "This is
the chalice of ray blood ;" the light
breathing of that whisper is heard
even in the bosom of the Eternal Fa-
ther, the golden gate^i of Paradise are
thrown open, and God "bows the
heavens and comes down." He is
here, this church is now the hut of
Bethlehem, this altar is the manger ;
for the Child is born upon it as really
as the*Virgin-m other there brought him
forth.

M when of old light was made,
there was a music of the spheres, of
the Bun and moon and all the stars
And planets, singing their morning
hymn of gratitude, so is the stillness
now also broken, so does the choir,
waibling in swelling glee, burst forth
in grand cUmax, "Hosanna in excelsis."
And in the mean time priest and peo-
ple united utter to their new-bom
Saviour many rich and beautiful
prayers for the living, for the faithful
^parted, for themselves.

The villagers are absorbed in pray-
er; it seems as though their fervor
J^pt redoubling, as though the flames
^ho\j love burned higher and higher
cvciy instant. Well they may, for
the moment is approaching in which
^ heart will be a manger in which
Jwog will be laid, each breast a taber-
wde in which love 'itself shall dwell.
Already there is a move among them ;
'ith modest gait, with clasiwd hands
•od downcast eyes, they advance to
^ sanctuary, the mystic bread is
P^en to them line atler line, and,
kewing their God with them, they all
Jtum in reverence to give thanks,
Jo petition for good things. Serenity
V m their eyes and on their features,
jof 18 in their hearts, rapture in their
iooIb. peace among their feelings, and
Jttus wittun their bosoms harmonizing
iH truly happy Christmas 1 O

the bliss that now is theirs, the comfort
of this moment 1 Well may the chan-
ters hymn : " Jesus, Grcxl ! Great
God ! Good Pastor ! Sweet Lamb! O
Jesus, my Jesus ! O Bread ! O Man-
na I O Power! what dost thou not
grant to man !"

Then praises and thanks are sung
joyously by the priest, and his hand
is stretched in blessing from the altar.
Tiie Mass is over, and the procession
moves from the sanctuary, while the
choir chants aloud, " Praise the Lord
all ye nations, praise him all ye peo-
ple. Because his mercy is confirmed
upon us, and the truth of the Lord re-
maineth for ever." (Ps. cxvi.)

The chant dies away, and for
awhile not a sound is heard through
all the sacred building. No one stirs
as yet ; all remain some time to re-
turn thanks, to allow the impression
of the festival to sink deep into their
souls. At length they rise, and bow-
ing lowly toward the altar, they go
forth. At the church-door hands are
shaken, kisses given, warm embraces
are exchanged, and joy and happiness
and all the blessings of the Child's
nativity are wished and wished again.
But follow them home from their
midnight celebration. For a long
time the village slumbers not ; lights
glimmer through the cottage-windows,
and within groups are kneeling around
a little home-made oratory, with a little
crib in the middle, and candles around
it. This is of greater importance than
the gathering around the yule-fire or
the decked tree. Moreover, all did not
go home when Mass was over. Go
back to the church, and behold those
silent figures praying in every posture
that feeling can suggest. There, be-
fore that tabernacle, a mother prays
the divine Child for her own babe ; a
virgin prays for purity like to that of
the Virgin-mother; the child of misery
seeks consolation from him who was
bom in a stable ; many repeat over
and over again the canticle of the an-
gels, and all beg the blessings of him
over whom the angels sang it. At
length these also are gone ; the lights

570

are quenched about the altar, all, save
the silver lamp which tg n fever extin-
guished ; nil ij* still as was the stable
when the sliqiiierdd had arlored and
^ne hack to their lloekg.

But the festival of uur Suviotir^s birlh
is not over yet* " A* the day comeg
round in iniHic and In light;* jou again
gee tlie villag'T:^ wcndiug their way to
the chureh ; and a third time, when
the sun is in the mid-areh of heaven.
Each time is witnessed the same aiib-
lime eelebnition llml we beheld at
midnight; for lhiN?e hirihs of Christ
are celebrated. Ili^ birth from the
Father before lime began ; his birth
from the iminai^uktc Virgin as a wail-
ing babe at Bethlehem ; hi^ mystic
•birth, by taith and by tlie sacrament
of love, in the heart of each hiimhle
adorer.

Such was Chris I mas in the happy
olden iimea. Ala^ 1 tluit a bUght
should ever have come u[>on it. Tnily
ihey have not done well to despoil
that village church of all it* charming
fealiireA. Well may the church ex-
claimt wecpuig: **Tiie keeper that
go about the cily found me; they

fitrucW me, and woaodid i
era of the WjiJis tf>-^' "*"
(Cant, v, 7.) F
will soon again 1-
The pope that r*
fell away grievt?d -uai.
In his di-^lre;*^ he put a
crown; and eveo uow
unei*ownod, with dowa
though hi"* grief bad 1
to stone. But «oon, ire
again lift up hiii eyc«, 1
will his successors rrjoi«
crown rephieetL not bj
by augtd han<k.
hope and pray tliatj
land» ako, will for
brilliant jewel in timt
day thi* church will
herself with the fiowe
wore, but which relH
tore to pieces. scaKetin
around her. Then ill
again celcbmto the goi
olio Chridtmas timoSt fl
I hem with the inenNua
h \yirn of the wandc
grant it f j)eedily I

L>CtII^

MISCELLANY,

Spot* on the Son. — ScUnc^ ^vUw. —
We would dn»w the iiUefition of our
sctcnlitlc reJi^lers to a rcmnrkable opinion
and theory of Sir John Herschel's with
ttjgftrd to the niituri' of those curious ob-
ject;; di?»co verted Viy Mr, Nrtsiiiiytli on the
BUrfnce of the sim, fttid gcnt?rally call-
ed, from their peculinr sliape, *' willow
loaves/* Wo bi^lievc 8ir John first pro-
|H)unded thiii theory ia »n anicic on the
sun» pu!»Ii=4hcd in (lood Words, hut it
does not s*'cni to havo been notir'i»d hy
many aHironotner?!, However wild the
hy{w>the<is may Appear^ it hjis just ro-
eeivcd « Turtlicr ssartciionfrom ii< eminent
author, by Uh reptihlicJilion in his new
book of Familiar Lectures, which we no*
lice t*Ut* whore. Sir John says : ** Noth-
ing reuruns but to coiiHidor them (the
so^&lled willow leaves) as separate and
Independent shcct^ Uuke^ or scaI^ Kar*

infr some cort of
flakes, be they wtiit tli4
ever may be Roid ah
meteoric stonca into
phcre« vtc, arts evident
sourctffi ot the solar ItgUl
whatever mechanism or '
ce*^es th(?y m»y bo cnabll
und, an it ivere^ elal>ormt« t
from the bof?ii»m of the
fluid in whith iIm v .if>(
Looked at in I f

not ret\i*»e to r m

of some pecuHii -n i im;**
though it wo'il i i» L. Hi lb
of such «»T
nature ol
action is r ,
light, %ut] 1 1
ling as h mih li mji v\^i
tilic men will

I mji |iai
lii do ki

-til

H&ictllanym

571

knew fts little about the cause of tho
bhck lines seen in the spectrum of the sun
as we now know about these appearances
on the sun itself, Sir John llcrschel sug-
gested, in 1833, that very explanation
which was the foundation of the memor-
ible law announced by the German phi-
losopher, Kirchhotf, in 1859 — a law now
unirersally accepted as atfording a perfect
solution to the long-standing puzzle of
Fraunhofer's lines.

Simple Net for the Capture of Oceanic
Animals, — Sf^iewe Jicvieto. — In a paper
read before the Microscopical Society of
London on the fauna of mid-ocean, Major
S. R. Owen gives the following directions
for the preparation of a simple form of
net for the above purpose, and which
maybe rigged out at a few hours' notice.
A grommet should be made for the
mouth, to which three cords may be at-
tached to connect it with the towing-line ;
that Ibo should bo a good stout piece of
itufl^ and capable of bearing a great
strain. To the grommet should be at-
tached, first, a bag, the upper part of
which may be made of a thin canvas, the
lower part of strong jean, ending in a
piece of close calico or linen ; the bottom
must be left open, and tied round with a
t»pe when used ; this will be found con-
venient for taking out the contents, and
^7 leaving it open and towing it so for a
*^t time it can be thoroughly washed.
Over the whole an outer covering of
the strongest sail-cloth should be put,
the upper part, in like manner, attached
to the grommet, the lower part left open,
*^ a portion for a foot or eighteen inclies
of the seam letl to be coarsely laced up
^th a piece of cord, the same being done
fef the bottom itself. If necessary, a
third covering may be put between these
of any strong but rather porous material ;
hit this in its turn should be left open
•t the bottom, and only tied when re-
quired for use. Its kngth should be so
■justed when tied that the inner lining
^calico may rest against it, and be re-
eved from the strain. The outer sail-
*^ should, in like manner, be laced up
^ roo^ve and support the whole.

•4 New Magneeium Lamp. — An in-
l^ioua fonn of magnesium lamp, the in-
J^tion of Mr. H. Larkin, and which was
"'It exhibited at the Royal Institution a
^ple of months since, was shown at
the toirU^ of the British Association at
KottiDgham. Instead of the ordinary

ribbon or wire of the commoner forms ot
magnesium lamps, magnesium powder is
employed. Hence all machinery is dis-
pensed with, tho magnesium being con-
tained in a reservoir, from a hole in tho
bottom of which it falls like .sand from an
hour-glass. Tho powder is allowed to
fall upon the flame of a small gas-jet, and
by this it is inflamed, giving all its usual
illumination. In order that a sufficient
quantity of powder may be employed,
and that the hole in the reservoir may
be large enough to allow (►f a regular
flow, without waste of magnesium, the
latter is mixed with fine sand. The size
of the aperture is regulated by a stop-
cock. When it is desired to light the
lamp, tho gas is first turned on, just
sufliciently to produce a small jet at tho
mouth of the tube, which small jet,
being once kindled, may be allowed to
burn any convenient time, until the
moment the magnesium light is required.
All that is then needed is to turn on
the metallic powder, which instantly de-
scends and becomes ignited as it passes
through the burning gas. This action of
turning on and off the metallic powder
may be repeated without putting out the
gas, as often and as quickly as desired ;
so that, in addition to the ordinary pur-
pose to which lamps are applied, an in-
stant or an intermittent light of great
brilliancy, suitable for signals or for
light-houses, may be very simply pro-
duced with certainty of effect and with-
out the smallest waste of metal. Tlie
first evening an objection was made that
the blue tone of the light created a cold
and somewhat ghastly effect. On thd
second occasion Mr. Larkin remedied this
by mixing with the magnesium a certain
quantity of nitrato of strontia. — Journal
of the ^ocUty of Arte.

An Artificial Eye for restoring
Sight. — An apparatus of this kind,
whose efiiciency we much doubt, has
been described by M. Blanchet, in a
paper in which he details the operation
for its insertion under the title of Ilelio-
prothesis. The operation consists in
puncturing the e3'e in the direction of
the antero-posterior axis with a narrow
bistoury, and introducing a piece of ap-
paratus* to which M. Blanchet gives the
name of *' phosphore." Tlie operation in
most instances produces little pain, and
when the globe of the eye has undergono
degeneration there is no pain at all, and
the " phosphore '' apparatus is iutro-

New PuNict^i&im*

duccil without dlfficviUy, Tno dcscrip-
tion of this contrivance is this : ** It con-
BiBts of a ?*liell of enamel, and of a ltib«
dosed at both its ends by gUssos whose
form varies according to circumstancoH/ *
M* 'Blanchet thus describe#i the operji'
tion: **The pntieiit's? bead being sup-
ported by an asssistant, t!ie upper eycbd
is raised by an elevator, and the lower
on© is depressed. The opyrutor lb on
puncture!^ the eyo with a narrovir bis-
toiirj% adaptirig the width of \m incii^ion
lo the diameter of the * phosphoro ■ tube
which he intends to insert. The trans-
lucent humor having escaped, tlio
* phosphoro' apparatus is applied^ and
almost immediately, or after a short
time, the patient U partially restored to
eight !" Before itUroducitig the appa-
ratus it 18 necessary to fnli-ulutc the an-
tero- posterior diameter of the eye» aod if
the lens has cataract it must be re- *
moved. Inasmuch as the range of vision
depends on the rpiantity of the humor
left behind, M. Blanchet reoommendB
tlio emph^yment of spectacles of vaiioua
kinds. — Pifpuliir Science BeDistt^

Actwn of Different Co fared Lights on
the RHlniU—li i^ known to phystologi>4t«
tliat when a ray of light fills upon the
retina, the impression it produces remain*
f »r a iJefinite period, according to calcula-
tion about tlio third of a second. It \a
this liict which is used to explain why a
burning bratid, when twirleil rapidly
round^ jnvo*i the appearance of a ring of
light. Uut till quite recently it liad not
been shown whctlier the ditlerent (*olors of
light had the ^iauie degree of piTsiiitence
upon the retimu The subject h;is nuite
lately beeti taken tip by the AbUe La-
borde^ who sliows that, ju,-<t as the prism
separates the colors at diUoreat iingk«s,
»o the retinii absorbs the col'jrs, t>r the
imprcstsioivd produced thereby, in diilV^r-
cnt times tn conducting his expuri-
ment to prove this, th« abbd receives the

sunlight through an ipvtttn
ter into a darkened chaiab^f .
ture i* about throe i ;^

six high. In tht? c*mi
in the middle ' ,s

placed a disk ol .'\

of which is pierced by iipuuil
gponding to the antfriurc in t|
This disk h caused lo rcvolT«
work. Behind tlic di^k in ptqi

of ground glass to

light. The disk bet;
revolve rapidly, H-"
w*hite, but as \
more rnpid tht* )>

the colors vvV 'i i

in their onli: ot - j

blue, green, re*!, whiie^

Tht Origin <j/^i>Afif»-f»f?#.— i
and it steema to u< f

theory of the origin oi i*

forward by M. l* «

published in th i

June2oth. The .j

this that diamon j

by an i«w.r.r,,,,i..i

bidcH i n

same iu

t^tra^ dc!4cribcd '

one of our late tn

iricianplcte oxidu:

drogen, all of wb«

ed into watcr^ witdtt uidy a y«i

sulphur i:* changed into «^nlphti^

' 1^

J
I

It in by a similar
has givi*n rise V^
tograpliitc. **Ir
"a muturo of 1
vapor of wat rr v
dation, diarri
tained," U
lliat the tu'

C0'4l-<^<- nlo

CrM,'

diiti'

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Ballads, Lvrics, and TTviL\3. By Alice Carey, we think bcttir of h«ir

Carey. 8vo., pp.
Hurd Hougliton,

833.

New York:

Literatarc knows no sex, but critics
do, and in courte^iy wo mast say to Mks

her book ; and while jod^^iTw; wll
fore us purely on tta tosthetie
wo incline to Wiero that Ih^ m
hero compiled do not jUioir bd
bc^L ThU book tiilgbt jtin

New PMicaiions.

578

»een good, only it is not It ap-
to consist of gatherings from the
f a respectable and old-established
rhose brand is familiarly known
er mild magazines and sensation
cals have penetrated. The most
ent quality it demonstrates is the

industry — or the well-oiled ma-
r—of the fair miller. The style
iiout is just of the kind to be the

a "Poet's Corner;" best charac-
, perhaps, by the word "unexcep-
e," as used by the domestic critic,
Uicre be, of Frank Leslie or the
. Generally, there is nothing what-
) quarrel with — grammatically,
\ theologically, or practically. Wo
not be in the least surprised if
wey's manuscripts even came in
ely punctuated. The whole book
the perfection of a gentleman's
every constituent part is so cor-
*got up," that once out of sight,
mot recall a single thing be-
he impression of the tout en-

e is considerable thinking, with-
7 notable novelties in thought,
t is, no one who has not tried can
»tc the difficulty of finding some-
talient to fasten an opinion on.
in impression of the serious and
►arts of the volume on our mind
it the authoress loved God, meant
eligious and tender-hearted, and
;the world cold and the sectarians
-minded : laudable conclusions
ch we rither agree with on the
but which do not show cause
ij should exist in such splendid

s were all ; if the book consisted

Ks it does mainly, of versified
rkableness, all were well enough,
i sell all the same, and descend
le course to the limbo of respcct-
diocrity, which cannot be damn-
use it never had a chance to be

But there are gleams amid the
iplace that make it, to our mind,
he saddest books we ever opened

ith the unfulfilled promise of a
it. wasted life. While there is

believe, a single true poem in
k, we do think Miss Carey might
ivc written poetry. There arc
>f talent, like the abrasions on
I Alpine ridges where avalanches
ers went by them that are long
elted into the valley below, and
join the sea. We do not think

Miss Carey ever had a very great supply
of poetic power — never so much as
Phoebe Carey, who has enough poetry
in her to equip any ten of the other lady
contributors whose versicles pay as well
as hers ; but what there was has been
sapped and drained off as fast as it ac-
cumulated, in a thousand paltry rillets
of verse that at most can only be silver
threads in the passing sunshine. Had
she ever been suffered to let her thoughts
and fancies gather and mingle, perhaps
she could have written welL She has
not only considerable command of lan-
guage, but some character : there has al-
ways been something respectable about
Miss Carey that set her apart, somehow,
from the other newspaper writers of
miscellaneous verses, and to it she prob-
ably owes the present distinction of being
the only one whose productions are
thought worth making a book from.
But the woman has nevpr had a chance.
As fast as an idea budded, it was con-
tracted for in advance and plucked long
before ripeness, for the greedy children
that will have their green fruit If a
fancy strayed into her brain, it was not
hers to do with as. she liked. It must
be carved and served up in as many dif-
ferent styles as possible; made into a
long poem for one paper and a short
poem for another, and dashed into a
third as a flavoring ingredient for a string
of hired rhymes. Now, is there not a
strange pathos in the idea of making a
life-long business of doing that ill which
one might do well, and which is only
worth existence when well done; of
dribbling and frittering away every finer
impulse ; of chipping the heart's crystals
up into glaziers' diamonds; of subsisting
on oneself, Prometheus and vulture in
one ? And how infinitely sadder with
the consciousness all the while that if
one could but get a respite, this same
work, wrought in freedom, might win all
that hope asks ?

Consciously or unconsciously, this, we
believe, is the discipline through which
Miss Carey has passed. We think so
from the manner, and from the places,
in which we come upon the fragments of
promise that shine hero and there. They
are often repeated in other lines — some-
times verbatim ; they are not the sub-
stance but ahva}'s the sauce of the poem ;
they are never sustained or developed.
Everything goes to show that she has
reached that fatal state of enervation
when the mind, from long desuetude.

Hmc Puifimiiiam*

and from norer huTing a fair cliiince to

think out anything, becotne<» nej[l to in-
cnpable of any continiimi pactiral thought
nt nlK The exertion of dcvcl»:>]iihg a
hiippy idea into its best form U Uny much
lor the unused and enf«_»eblL*d ima^ nation.
So much for the conjwtural inside
view of these versos tho actual oiitjiide
view remains. Whether it be a sad £act
or simply a fact, there is nothing to read
twice in tho book. It is not p^wtry, but
it 19 a piece of very good judgment on
the part of the publisher— just what they
want And if we understand their mo-
tives, we shall earn their good will by
sayinj? that thig i^i a 8afe, trustworthy,
and entirely hamde'^s work, innocuous
to fnmilie.'i jind schools^ frUpcrbly bound,
finishe<l, arvd printoil, and tit, beyond ab
mo*it any work we know of, for a present
from very afleclionato young men to very
^miabltt young ladios.

BErrttovEN^s LBTTKRa. (1700-1836.)
From the collection of Dr. Ludwig
Nohl ; also his Letters to tho Arch-
duke Rudolph, Cardinal' Archbishop
of Olmutz, from the colloclion of Dr.
Ludwig Hitter von Koctieb I'rani^-
la ted by Lad}" Wallace; with a por-
trait and facsimile. 2 vuls., 12nio.
Ilurd & Houghton.

These letters of the illustrious w<»-
l«»frc' are arranged under three hcad)^ :
rliife\s Joy a and Sorrows TJfe*s Mission,
[Life's Troubles and Close. They nro
of tiuite a uuHcelUneous character, and
efer to every conceivable event of life,
Pdisplaying much good humor and not
*m little ill humor in their short, quick,
impatient sentences. As a letter- writer
he is far inferior to Mb/4irt, with whom
the reader coniei* at once into sympatbv,
and of whoso letters very few indeed are
wanting in sentiments of universal inter-
est. On the contniry, a very large num-
ber of these letters of Beethoven will be
read simply because Beethoven wrote
theta, unrl wilt not be.ar a repeni^al
Yet they will, no doubt, find a welcome
place beside those ot his groat brother
arUst on the tjible of every admirer of
the grand mu^ic or fhese two grand gen-
iuscs. Iliw r u.^ untl, ^y^ („^^, ^^^

»«MtKnvhat etiitor and com-

pder, Dr, N :,aps better tpiaii^ed

lo f »rm a upon the general

tenor and m^in -i these letter* thuQ
we are, and we thertf ire .^uoto the fol*

lowing &om hlfl prHlaei td the _

work: ** If not fettrr*»»I hv p«tlj I

ings, rho reader will quickly

the casual obstacles «nd stumli^

blocks which the flj^t p«rtiial of fSnt

letters may seem t*» nrvv^nl, tod qckUr

feel himsdf traii a &ln|tU «tridi

i nto a s tream wb i j c f nin n^ md

rushing is heard, but iUjo> - zr

tones resound with magi< ri*

power. For a pecidiar lif** bnuthr-^ m

these lines ; an undor - rurr«*nl mm

through tlieir n i

import, uniting i

chain» and wi()i

mere rohcrenr4>

effected. I i xf

t!ie most rcti, ,1 , . ;

made t>i.> -.» . .

ance v,

the huh .

neither date nor a*i

goon convinced thiit

(such m Motart*^ <«

ought to have) wouM '

uupcrfluous, as even t

cal commentary wou'*

intenupluig ihr '

whole^ and thuiA jt

ctTcct,'*

The volumes are pahllidied In iehoUi^
style, and prenetH a vcrj neadibU iw
attractive page.

Ix)\i>o^ Poimsu By Rob«K

1 2 mo, pp. 272. AJexaniler Stiate
London and Xew-Vofk.

The elegant drc^i of Uiis wvAtmt, «&
characteristic of Mr. Slrabao^i ftSaHiat
tions, is calculated to make rme ikf rf
saying anything d«r«>. t» ^il^

acter ; but wc are v^u^i -jy W

we dcH^Jdeilly oliJQCt tj .Mr. lIucliaaiB**
poetry in any dreas. Th« jcratif p**

of these p<>'
pulsive- Til
rudely penn»<i -•
of low life in Loi«
ligious V' ''^' '
that s{<
the tniL ,
tlon. The poet i
will, hut let him r
throw a charm ab<jut :
TMStf a Htoru) of in
Fjoi^omfl of the vii
Poetry is a divir
discharge at on
teachor aa well n

f}o«Sltrtlyi«'
le taiirvd^

Ifew PubUeationt.

575

bear the impress of divine
ity, and purity. That which
se, boorish, and oY)scene is
>s detestable for being put in

THE Great and nis Court.
•rical novel. By L. Miihl-
ranslated from the German
Chapman Coleman and
i. 12mo. New- York: D.
k Co. 1866.

lity with which the novels of
M&hlbach have risen into
in this country is a pretty
ition of their merit They
>m the false sensationalism
ishes the spice of the lower
odern fiction ; and they treat
subjects and characters with
ntention to exhibit historical
not as a mere framework for
of a trashy story. Many of
ire drawn with a fidelity and
ness which show at the same

familiarity with the times
.s with which the novel is
jid a very considerable liter-

but the dialogues are not

1 managed, the diction being
too trivial and sometimes too
jspite this minor defect, the

enou(;h of interest : and our
•onsidering the great and long-
popularity of Miss Miihlbach
\ that her writings were not
into our language long ago.
gular fact that the present
some other historical novels
ime pen which D. Appleton
now in press, were translated
nted in the Confederate States
late rebellion.

B Education op Women. By
ivies. 16mo, pp. 101. Lon-
New-York: Alexander Stra-
66.

well- written plea for reform
«nt system of female educa-
or a reform w^hich would ig-
ferencc in the character and
le two sexes, but one which
1 to women various callings

nature has specially fitted
N)m which they are now shut
>y defective training or by the

prejudices of society. Miss Davies^s little
treatise is an appropriate companion
work for a volume of similar essays by
Miss Parkes which we noticed two or
three months ago; and though both of
them are more applicable to the state of
things in England than to the better
condition of women in our own country
there is much in both w^hich deserves our
serious consideration.

A Generxl History of the Catholic
Church, from the commencement of
the Christian Era until the present time.
By M. rabbe J. E. Darras. Vol. IV.
New-York: P. O'Shea. 1866.

The fourth volume of this highly es-
teemed work completes the publication
of the original history of M. Darras. It
comprises the last, and to us for many
reasons the most interesting period of the
history of the church ; that which be-
gins with the rise of Protestantism down
to the pontificate of Gregory XVI. To
this volume is added as an appendix a
very concise and valuable historical
sketch of the origin and progress of the
Church in the United States by the Rev.
Dr. C. I. White, of Washington City.
We have already warmly commended
this work to our readers. It will take
its place, of course, in all our colleges
and literary societies, and become as
familiar to our American as it is already
to all French students ; but we wish for
it also a wide distribution in the family
circle. There is no reason why such
useful and entertaining works as this
shouhl not be kept at hand and under
the eye of our youth at home. A good
knowledge of the church's life, Ubors,
trials, and victories is necessary to every
CathoFic in our day, both for an intelli-
gent appreciation of his faith as well as
to be able to combat the attacks that
faith receives through misrepresentation
of the facts of history, and the unblushing
falsehoods concerning the Papacy, which
are so foul a blot upon the pages of his-
tory and controversy written by Protes-
tant and infidel enemies of the church.
The present work is the best history of
the church we possess in the English
language. It is such a one as we have
needed a long time, and we again thank
the enterprising publisher for the boon
he has thus conferred upon the Catholic
public.

57G

Mw PaUteaiionf*

The ScprKRi?<c3s ov Jesu^s. By Father
ThomA3 of Jt^sui^ Keprintcd from
the la^t Lot»iinn ivlition. Ne^ York:
P. 0*6\\iif^ 27 B.ircl!iy at 18<?G.

Till 8 19 a work composed by a greiit
saint, and justly dei;ervmg of tlid grcAt
roputatbii it lus nhv;iys eiijoycil »a one
of the best of spiritual books, ft eon-
tains ail incxh^ta>itib(c mine of tnetliU*
tion, sufficient to Ui^t a person f hiring
hi.s whole life, and just as new Jirifi fr«sh
after thts himfberilh perufiAl us during
thti first It is ajs a bot^k for tneditation
that it should be ust^d^ mu\ fur thin pur-
pose it cannot bo too liiii^lily reconimend-
ed to religiouj* conimniiiticii or to devout
persons in the world who deiiro and
need a guide and model fur the practice
of meditution.

TflK Life axo Liotit or M?.>% An Esi-
«ay. By Juhn Young, LL*D. Edin.
Htrabiiii.

Dr. Y'oung was formtTly a Presbyte-
rian ininii^ter^ but rt'signed hia position
on account of Ijis inabdity to believe the
Presbyterian diicirincs| especially that of
the Ticarrous atonement and imputed
rightcOLisness of Christ The prei«ent
wurk is levelled aj^aiost this doctrine.
The author has tolerably clear views of
the Incarnation, and some other Catho-
lic doctrines, Ui^ learnioi^ appears to
bo consiiUrable, the tono of h'a» mind
very just and nigdcTato, and his intel-
lectual and liteniry abtiily of no moan
order. Hois one instance among a thou-
sand othorn, of a noble, religious mind
- striving to rise above the common Prot-
estant orthodoxy without lloating away
into rationalism. We rerDuuncnd hl^
book to our Calvinistic friends* What
the excellent author is yoarnin^ after i&
Catholic thedofry. This, and this alone
would Siili^ly hitu, for it aloiio win sat-
isfy any mintl Lhut wishes to believe in
the Christian revelation and at tho samo
tiin£ be rational.

TuK Lirt: or St« Yiscr,sr de Pai^l^ axd
ITS LtiHsoss. A Locture. By R«v, T,
S. Proiiton, It Coddington.

Th« publication of this lecture will
gratify mrmy who were not a bio to bo
present at its delivery. Tho orator givcj
A short account of the life and great la-
bom of the apostle of ch:inty, nod then
shows the flifferenco between charity
as ft Chrij^Uan rirtuc and aim pie, natu*

ral pbtlanUiropy, bo^H io pr
their nicanj; aitd cmds of
works of bencToleaea, thmt
Christian samt w cmrdmn
avoids to the utmost of hil
considered by tlio world As
ccssity to secure success, tl
and applause of m**n Til
well brought ">i loci

one which it is to

oup minds in thjs i?ir n _ u-
cecd^ of the sale oi il.
credited to th(? b«?ne(it ut Un
ol St Vioccttt do Paul. alt«
Aftn^g church of this city.

Altr irsn Neitk Wklt. Betu
Now York

Thia iH a Ott*-^- -...^♦i.i
in the German
copious il1n-ir ,
per are of
tenU very

well chosen* The iilustraii
far the beat which c\n he foi
periodical puhlishod in Att
many of them e-^U'v! to tS<wf
European
whole reH
condii
slve [
inti.'lii
Wer

fetudyiM^ lUr I'M 111, »n *ii,^'>jm,

csted in German lite4*atar«L
trations alone arc worli
&abscripion, which U i

nieiTil>«r« ai ^'. ._

Ux<»r of Tb* Oow^ttiW* I** —

THE

A.THOLI0 WORLD

VOL. IV., NO. 28— FEBRUARY, 1867.

THE POPE AND THE REVOLUTION

BY JOHN HENRT NEWMAN, D.D.

sermon is given to the world
aence of its having been made
i in the public prints of various
dd comments, which, though
tdlj and fair to the author, as
has seen them, nevertheless,

necessity of the case, have
I from information inexact in
ietaiL,

ow published from the copy
^forehand, and does not differ
copy, as delivered, except in
ections of a critical nature as
rative when a composition,
irrente caiamo, has to be pre-
the press. Tliere is one pas-
ever, which it has been found

to enlarge, with a view of
g more exactly the sentiment
contained, namely, the com-
made between Italian and
Catholics.

tthor submits the whole, as he
his publications, to the judg-
Boly Church.]
r 18, 1866.

» brlshtiy in her yoathAU days,
forldoo her smiled ;
OQieul, ihe would pour her rajs
it, and nndefiled ;
[ not ttaafearm of force were mine,
m from her AWftil ancient shrine.

TOL. IT.

*Twas dnty bonnd each conreri-king to rear

His mother from the dost ;
And pious was it to enrich, nor fear

Christ for the rest to trust :
And who shall dare make common or unclean
What once has on the holy altar been f

Dear brotherb I hence, while ye for ill prepare,

Triumph Is still your own ;
Blest is a pilgrim church 1 yet shrink to share

The curse of throwing down.
So will we toll in our old place to stand,
Watching, not dreading, the despoiler*s hand.

Vld. Ltba AroerouoA

8EBM0N.

This day, the feast of the Holy Ro-
sary of the Blessed Virgin Mary, has
been specially devoted by our ecclesi-
astical superiors to be a day of prayer
for the sovereign pontiff, our holy
father, Pope Pius the NinUi.

His lordship, our bishop, has ad-
dressed a pastoral letter to his clergy
upon the subject, and at the end of it
he says : ^ Than that festival none can
be more appropriate, as it is especially
devoted to celebrating the triumphs of
the Holy See obtained by prayer. We
therefore propose and direct that on
the festival of the Rosary, the chief
mass in each church and chapel of our
diocese be celebrated with as much
solemnity as circumstances will allow
of. And that after the mass the psalm

578

The Pope and the SevoUOum.

Miserere and the Litany of the Saints
be sung or recited. That the faithful
be invited to offer one communion for
the Pope's intention. And that, where
it can be done, one part at least of the
rosary be publicly said at some conve-
nient time in the church, for the same
intention.'^

Then he adds : '^ In the sermon at
the mass of the festival, it is our wish
that the preacher should instruct the
fidthful on their obligations to the Holy
See, and on the duty e8i)ecially incum-
bent on us at this time of praying for
the Pope."

L "Our obligations to the Holy
See." What Catholic can doubt of
our obligations to the Holy See ? espe-
cially what Catholic under the shadow
and teaching of St. Philip Neri can
doubt those obligations, in both senses
of the word " obligation," the tie of
duty and the tie of gratitude ?

1. For first as to duty. Our duty to
the Holy See, to the chair of St Peter,
is to be measured by what the church
teaches us concerning that Holy See
and of him who sits in \U Now St.
Peter, who first occupied it, was the
Vicar of Girist You know well, my
bretliren, our Lord and Saviour Jesus
Christ, wlio suffei-ed on the cross for us,
thereby bou^rht for us the kingdom of
heaven. ** When thou hadst overcome
the sting of death,*' says the hymn,
^thou didst open the kingdom of
heaven to those who believe." He
opens, and he shuts ; he gives grace,
he withdraws it; he judges, he par-
dons, he condemns. Accordingly, he
speaks of himself in the Apocalypse as
**him who is the holy and tlie tnie,
him that hath the key of David (the
key, that is, of the chosen king of the
chosen people), him that openeth and
no man shutteth, that shutteth and no
man openeth." And wliat our Lord,
the supreme judge, is in heaven, that
was St. Peter on earth; he had the
keys of the kingdom, according to the
text, "Thou art Peter, and upon this
rock I will build my church, and the
^68 of hell shall not prevail against
It And I will give to thee the keys

of the kingdom of heaven ; an
soever thou shalt bind upon ear
be bound also in heaven; an>
soever thou shalt loose on eart
be loosed also in heaven.'

Next, let it be considered, t
dom which oar Lord set up '
Peter at its head was decreet
counsels of God to last to the e
things, according to the word*
just quoted, " The gates of h
not prevail against it." Aw
" Behold I am with you all da
to the consummation of the
And in the words of the proplu
speaking of that divinely est
church, then in the fatore, "
my covenant with them, My ^
]& in thee, and my words whicl
put in thy month, shall not dc
of thy mouth, nor out of the n
thy seed, nor out of the mout
seed's seed, saith the Lord, froi
forth and for ever." And the
Daniel says, " The God of hei
set up a kingdom that shall i
destroyed . . . and it shall I
pieces and shall consume i
kingdoms (of the earth, whi
before it), and itself shall s
ever.**

That kingdom our Lord set
he came on earth, and especii
his resurrection ; for we are
St. Luke that this was his gnu
ployment, when he visited t
ties from time to time, during
days which intervened betwc
ter day and the day of his ai
" He showed himself alive to i
ties," says the evangelist, " i
passion by many prootis, for f(
appearing to them and speakii
kingdom of God.** And aeo
when at length he had aso
high, and had sent down " the
of his Father," tlie Holy Gh
his a)X)3tles, they forthwith
upon their high duties, and bro
kingdom or church into sh
supplied it with memben,
larged it, and carried it into t
As to St. Peter, he acted aa
of the choreby aoooiding Id

The Pope and ike SevoltUian.

579

•rds of Christ ; and, still ac-
t) his Lord's supreme will, he

placed himself in the see of
bere he was martyred. And
3 then done, in its substance
I undone. ^ God is not as a

he should lie, nor as the son
hat he should change. Hath
len, and shall he not do ? hath
en, and will he not fulfil P'
St. Paul says, •< The gifts and
ifr of God are without repent-
lis church, then, in all necee-
ters, is as unchangeable as he.
iwork, its polity, its ranks, its
ts creed, its privileges, the
made to it, its fortunes in the
« ever what they have been,
lore, as it was in the world,
/ the world, in the apostles'
» it is now ; as it was '* in
d dishonor, in evil report and
art, as chastised but not killed,
g nothing and possessing all
in the apostles' times, so it is

then it taught the truth, so
3W ; as then it had the sacra-
grace, so has it now ; as then
lierarchy or holy government
8, priests, and deacons, so has
ind as it had a head then, so
have a head now. Who b
lie head ? who is the vicar of
who has now the keys of the

of heaven, as St. Peter had
ITio is it who binds and looses
, that our Lord may bind and
beaTen ? Who, I say, is the

* to St Peter, since a succes-
nrast be, in his sovereign au-

rer the church ? It is he who

• Peter's chair ; it is the Bish-
one. We all know this ; it is
HOT faith; I am not provmg
I, my brethren. The visible
of the church, which was with
r while he lived, has been
irer since in his chair; the
m in his headship are the suc-
B Ma chair, the continuous line
pt of Rome, or Popes, as they
dy one after another, as years
led oOy one dying and another
lourn to thii day, when we see

Pius the Ninth sustaining the weight
of the glorious apostolate, and that
for twenty years past — a tremendous
weight, a ministry involving moment-
ous duties, innumerable anxieties, and
immense responsibilities, as it ever has
done.

And now, though I might say mii?h
more about the prerogatives of the
Holy Father, the visible head of the
church, I have said more than enough
for the purpose which has led to my
speaking about him at all. I have
said that, like St. Peter, he is the
vicar of his Lord. He can judge, and
he can acquit ; he can pardon, and he
can condemn ; he can command, and
he can permit ; he can forbid, and he
can punish. He has a supreme juris-
diction over the people of Grod. He
can stop the ordinary course of sacra-
mental mercies; he can excommuni-
cate from the ordinary grace of re
demption ; and he can remove again
the ban which he has inflicted. It is
the rule of Christ's providence, that
what his vicar does in severity or in
mercy upon earth, he himself confirms
in heaven. And in saying all this I
have said enough for my purpose, be-
cause that purpose is to define our obli-
gations to him. That is the point on
which our bishop has fixed our at-
tention ; " our obligations to the Holy
See ;" and what need I say more to
measure our own duty to it and to him
who sits in it, than to say that, in his
administration of Christ's kingdom, in
his religious acts, we must never op-
pose his will, or dispute his word, or
criticise his policy, or shrink from his
side ? There are kings of the earth
who have despotic authority, which
their subjects obey indeed and disown
in their hearts ; but we must never
murmur at that absolute rule which
the sovereign pontiff has over us, be-
cause it is given to him by Christ, and,
in obeying him, we are obeying his
Lord. We must never suffer ourselves
to doubt, that, in his government of the
church, be is guided by an intelligence
more than human. His yoke is the
yoke of Christ, he has the responsi-

5S0

The Pope and the JieroluHom,

bility of hifl owd acts, not we; and
to his Lord must he render account,
not to us. Even in secular mjitters it
is ever safe to be on his side^ diingei^
ous to be on the side of his enemies.
Our dutj m, not indeed to mix up
Christ's vicar wiib this or that party
of men, l)eciiuse be in bis high stutiou
b above all parties, but to look ut his
acts, and to tbllow him wbiliier be
goetb, and never to desert bim, bow-
ever we may be tried, but to defend
him at all hazards, and against alt
ooroors, a^ a son would a father, and
us a wife a husband, knowing that bid
cause b the cause of God. And so,
fts regards bia successors, if we live to
tee them ; it h our duly to give them
in like manner our dutiful allegiaace
and our unfeigned service, and to fol-
low them also whitliensoever they go,
having that same cotitidence that each
in bis tarn and in bis own day will do
iiod's work and will, wbicli we felt in
their predeeessiirs, now taken away to
their eternal reward,

2. And now let us consider our ob-
iigatious to the sovereign jKjntiff in
the second sense, which is contained
under the word "obligation.'* **In
the sermon in (he mass,^* sars the
bi<«bop, ** it is our wish that the preach-
er should instruct the faiihtul ou their
obligations to the Holy See ;** and cer-
tainly tliosc obligations^ that 15, the
claims of the Holy See upon our grati-
tude, are very great. We in this coun-
7 owe our highest ble^^ginga to the see
St. Peter — to the succession of
bishops who have liiled hb apostolic
chair. For lii-st it was a Pope who
eent mbeionaries to this island in the
beginning of the church, wheu the bl-
and was yet in pagim darkness. Then
again, wlien our barbarous ancestors,
the Sa3ti>n8, crossed over from the ci>u-
tinent and overran the country, who
but a Pope, St, Griigory the First, seat
over Su Augustine and his companions
to convert tJiem to Chrbtianity 1 and
by Gild's graee they and their suecos-
Kkrs did thb great work in the ooujse
of a hundred years. From that time,
twelve hundred yean agp» our oadoo

hafl erer been Chriatian.

the lawless tirii ' ■!
the break-up *v[
Europe^ and th*
it waa the Pop^ % Lu^.i
who saved the rehgii
being utterly lo8t m
end, and not in En
Uie eon tinent ; that t§i \
n^e of that suoceBfiioo of 1
fiilHl his gracious
religion should never fail,
and the bishop* •■*' *'"' ^^^'
together in iliat
from destruction an inn lu
present happiness, spirituul
porah Without ihcm the t
have rebpsed into barbft^
God willed otherwise ;
the Roman poniiflTji, 1
St. Peter, the centre of (
the vicars of Chnst^ w
in the cause of faith
filling in tlicir own
prophecy : et ]

ed to the A U

" I have hiid bdp upon
mighty, and X have ex.*ittfid i|
en out of the pt!Ople, 1
David my servant, with 1
have I auiilntefl him. For J
shall help him, and mf
strengthen hiiu* The
have no advantage •
son of iniquitv have ]
I will : ■ hm

his fu ii«tl

put to lllgliU And myl
mercy >-hail hi* with hvT
name ^hall his bom be
shall cry out to m??, TIm<|j
ther, my God, and the i
salvation. And I will
fii«t-l)ornf high abore I
earth. I will kesep mjr i
for evefy and my
faithful to him.'"

And the Alm^hty ^
toward bit people, snd for \
of his relifnoci, and by
promiactan ' '* Ui

precious hi Ttt

loved 8on» wtiutii Uie t^
ed. AAMoseaAiidj

The JPdpe and the Revchoion.

581

as Dayid, were the leaden of
!% hoBt ID the old time, and caxv
he chosen people of Israel from
Lge, in Bpite of their enemies
bout, so have the Popes from
inning of the gospel, and es-

in Uiose middle ages when

prevailed, been faithful ser-
their Lord, watching and %ht-
inst sin and injustice and un-
nd ignorance, and spreading
'ar and wide the knowledge of
D truth.

they have been in every nge,
h are the obligations which
I owes to them ; and, if I am
on to speak of the present
md of our own obligations to
n I would have you recollect,
iren, that it is he who has taken
lolics of England out of their
d state and made them a

He it is who has redressed
tnne of nearly three hundred
landing. Twenty years ago

a mere collection of individ-
it Pope Pius has brought us
, has given us bishops, and
)ut of us a body politic, which,
jrod, as time goes on, will

important part in Christcn-
th a character, an intellect,
ower of its own, with schools
m, with a definite inflaence in
sels of the Holy Church Catho-
ngland had of old time.
las been his great act toward
itry ; and then specially, as to
t act toward us here, toward
le of his first acts after he was
10, in his great condescension,
le to Rome ; then, when I got
) bade me send for my friends
li me ; and he formed us into
17. And thus it came to pass
my return to England, I was
associate myself with others
1 not gone to Rome, till we
many in number that not only
Btabliflh our own oratory here,
the Pope had specially sent
re foimd we could throw off
a cokmy of seealous and able
ilo the metropolis^ and estab-

lish there, with the powers with which
the Pope had furnished me, and the
sanction of the late cardinal, that or^
atory which has done and still does so
much good among the Catholics of
London.

Such is the Pope now happily reign-
ing in the chair of St. Peter ; such are
our personal obligations to him ; such
has he been toward England, such to-
ward us, toward you, my brethren.
Such he is in his benefits, and, great
as are the claims of those benefits
upon us, great equally jrre the claims
on us of his personal character and
of his many virtues. He is one whom
to see is to love ; one who overcomes
even strangers, even enemies, by his
very look and voice ; whose presence
subdues, whose memory haunts, even
the sturdy resolute mind of the Eng-
lish Protestant. Such is the Holy Fa-
ther of Christendom, the worthy suc-
cessor of a long and glorious hue. Such
is he ; and great as he is in office, and
in his beneficent acts and virtuous life,
as great is he in the severity of his
trials, in the complication of his du-
ties, and in the gravity of his perils —
perils which are at this moment clos-
ing him in on every side ; and there-
fore it is, on account of the crisis of
the long-protracted troubles of his
pontificate which seems near at hand,
that our bishop has set apart this day
for special solemnities, the feast of the
Holy Rosary, and has directed us to
^ instruct the faithful on their ohUgor
tions to the Holy See," and not only
so, but also ^ on the duty especially in-
cumbent on us at this time o^ praying
for the Pope.'*

II. This, then, is the second point
to which I have to direct your atten^
tion, my brethren — the duty of pray-
ing for the Holy Father ; but, Wore
doing so, I must tell you what the
Pope's long-protracted troubles are
about, and what the crisis is which
seems approaching, I will do it in as
few woids as I can.

More than a thousand years ago,
nay, near upon fifteen hundired, began
that grsBtitdUEfi^e, which I spoke of

/ <^

Vn^

^ry. -^

:^< V /

S8S

l%i Pope imd the S0

junt now, between the old iind tbe
new inhabiUmts of this part of the
world. W hole populutions of barba-
rians overrun the whole fact5 of tlie
country, that is, of England, France,
Germany, Spain, Italy, and the re«t
of Europe. They were heathens, and
they got the betl<-^r of the Christians;
and rehgion seemed likely to fail to*
gether with that old Christian fitock.
But, as I have said, the Po|>e and the
bishops of the chureh took heart, and
set about converliag the newcomers,
OS in a former age they had eon verted
those who now had eome to mbfor-
tone; and, through God's mercy, they
succeeded. The Saxon English — An-
glo-Saxons, as they are called — are
among those whom the Pope convert-
ed, ns I said juBt now. The new con-
▼ert people, as you may suppose, were
Tcry grateful to the Pope and bish-
ops, and they showed their gmitiiudc
by giving them large possessions,
which were of great use, in the bad
ttmefl that followed, in maintaining tlie
influence of Christianity in the world*
Thus the Catholic Church became rich
and powerful* The bishops became
princes, and the Pope became a sove-
reign ruler, with a large extent of
country all his own* This state of
things lasted for many hundred years ;
and liic Pope and bishops became
richer and richer, more and more j>ov¥-
crful, until at length the Prnte^^tant
revolt took place, three hundred years
Ago, and ever since that time, in a
temporal point of view, they have be-
come of leas and le*is importance, and
iesi aod lees pro»|>erous. Generation
after generation the enemies of the
church, on the other hand, Jiave be-
come bolder and bolder, more power*
fill, and more successful in their meas-
ures against tlie Catholic 'faith. By
thia ^me the church has well-oigh
lost all its wealth and all itjB pow<?r;
its bishops have bf^^n de*: railed from
their high place!* in the world, and in
many countries have scarcely mon*, or
not more, of weight or of privilege
than the ministers of the sects which
have sphi off from it. However,

' '* biAhopt loOrai ii

lemporal rank« iht J
iKit \iM^ his; he haaboiilt
tion to the mle; acrrmfinj
providence of Gi>'
Rome, and the tern
Bome^ far and widr, ju^ hiA
session without lt*t or hindraii
now at length, by the optmli
Slime ciiu*e» which h-
Uie pow«?r of the bidh
Father Is in danger of 1
poi'al possessions, F**'
dred years he lias bail inm
time serious rirver^*^ but In
ed \ns ground. Six jiyirs M
the greater part of his domsis
but ilome and the gouhItt t
ly abfMtt it, — and uon iIm*
occurred Mfft^
iiretDaiafU^libi
umicB have succeeded, asilito
in persuading at lea^t a tain
of iiis suhjeclfi to side witli iN
is A reid and very
WhiU* his subjects are f<Mr
C1U1 have a word to aay «§
tetnpoml rule i but who
sovereign on a peopla wJ
ately rejects hlmt You
it for awhile, but at
pie, if they persist, wiU
Tfi JUt ihtiD,

gov.

oace uiUci.il ii waA m
gavc>rnmer/ts, but thai
enimcntii have got
not — that he can
within his territory, m
attacks from withi
and \m finauoes are
that his people are
in — that he dnes not ihow

to Wcomo rieh — ih^xt hr^

from iniproviTi

treai6 tbem u&\

no career for

minds, but oont

ty and sloth— t i

Uiat he is mi

sidering his grrat ftpmtual

has no time left him for

ceni»— and tluit a b^d

emment is a scaodAl m.

? - 'h

an(

7%« f&p§ tmd the SevoluHon.

688

re stated their arguments as
s I can, but you must not for
mt suppose, my brethren, that
either their principles or their
It is a simple paradox to say
lesiastical and temporal power
lawfully, religiously, ana use-
) joined together. Look at
e called the middle ages — that
period which interrenes be-
he old Soman empire and the.
world; as I have said, the
nd the bishops saved religion
t1 order from destruction in
tempestuous times — and they
hjf means of the secular power
hey possessed. And next, go-
to the principles which the
enemies lay down as so very
who will grant to them, who
r pretension to be a religious
tat progress in temporal pros-
8 the greatest of goods, and
?rythiBg else, however sacred,
ive way before it? 0n the
jT, health, long hfe, security,
knowledge, are certainly great
Hit the possession of heaven is
neater good than all of them
r. With all the progress in
happiness which we possibly
lake, we could not make our-
immortal — death must come;
11 be a time when riches and
knowledge will avail us noth-
1 true fiRuth and divine love
ftst life of obedience will be all
o us. If we were driven to
between the two, it would be
'ed times better to be Lazarus
iroTld than to be Dives in the

ever, the best answer to their
nts is contained in sacred his-
Inch supplies us with a very
) and instructive lesson on the
and to It I am now going to

observe, in the first place, no
) nudntains that that rule of
le as a king, in Rome and its
Bii which men are now hoping
inmk him, is, strictly speaking,
caDed a theocracy, that is, a

divine government His government,
indeed, in spiritual matters, in the
Catholic Church throughout the world,
might be called a theocracy, because
he is the vicar of Christ, and has the
assistance of the Holy Ghost; but
not such is his kingly rule in his own
dominions. On the other hand, the
rule exercised over the chosen people,
the Israelites, by Moses, Josue, Gid-
eon, Eli, and Samuel, was a theoc-
racy : Grod was the king of the Isra-
elites, not Moses and the rest — (hey
were but vicars or vicegerents of the
Eternal Lord who brought the nation
out of Egypt Now, when men ob-
ject that the Pope's government of
his own states is not what it should
be, and that therefore he ought to lose
them, because, forsooth, a rehgious
rule should be perfect or not at all,
I take them at their word, if they are
Christians, and refer them to the state
of things among the Israelites after
the time of Moses, during the very
centuries when they had Giod for their
king. Was that a period of peace,
prosperity, and contentment? Is it
an argument against the divine perfec-
tions, that it was not such a period ?
Why is it, then, to be the condemna-
tion of the Popes, who are but men,
that their rule is but parallel in its
characteristics to that of the King of
Israel, who was Grod ? He indeed has
his own all-wise purposes for what he
does ; he knows the end from the be-
ginning ; he could have made his gov-
ernment as perfect and as prosperous
as might have been expected from the
words of Moses concerning it, as per-
fect and prosperous as, from the words
of the prophets, our anticipations might
have been about the earthly reign of
the Messias. But this he did not do,,
because from the first he made that
perfection and that prosperity depend-
ent upon the free will, upon the co-
operation of his people. Their loyal
obedience to him was the condition,
Qxpressly declared by him, of his ful-
filling his promises. He proposed to
work out his purposes through them,,
and, when they refused their share

m the worV, eren-lhiTif^ went wrong.
Now thej did rchifte from the fir^l ;
BO that from ihe very fir^t, he wijs of
them timi^halically, they were n ** etiff-
necked people." Tlib was at the Ije-
ginniiig of their history ; and close
upon the end of it, St Stephen, iu-
gpired by the Holy Ghost, repents the
divine account of tliem : *' You stiff-
necked and unclrcuroeised in heart
and ears, you always resist the Holy
Ghost; as your fathers did, so do
yoa also" In consequence of this
obstinate disobedience, I sny, God's
promij^es were not fulfilled to them*
That long laf»ee of five or six hundred
years, during which God was their
king, wa^i in good part a time, not of
well-being, but of calamity.

Now, turning to the history of tho
papal moniiri'hy for the last thousand
years, the Roman fveople have not
certainly the guilt of the Israelites, he-
cause they were not opposing the di-
rect role of' God ; and I would not at-
tribute to them now a liability to the
Bame dreadful crimes which stain the
annals of their an cestoid ; but still,
af^er all they have been a singularly
gtifl'necJied peo[de in time pas^t^aud in
coni*equence, there has been cxtrem©
confusion, I may say anfurcby^ under
tbe reign of tlic Po|>es ; and the rest-
leis impatience of his rule which ex-
hta in the Roman territory now ta
only what ha« shown ilsclf age afler
mg^ in times past The Roman people
n^ seldom offered boilily Tiolenco
to their Popes, killed some Popes,
wounded others, drove ol hen* from the
city. On one occasion they asiaulted
the Pope at tlie very altar in St*
Feter"*, and he was obliged to take to
flight in his pontifical vei?itmcnt«. An-
other time they insulted the clergy of
Rome ; at another, they attacked and
lobbed the pilgrims who brought offer-
logH from a distance to the shrine of
St. Peter. Sometimes they sidtni
with the German emperors against
the Po|>e ; somerimeii with otiier ene-
mies ot his in Italy itself. As many
as ihirty-SLic Pope* endured this dread-
ful contest with thetr own aiibject3» till

at lost, in angor and dh^
Rome and Italy, they look
France, whnrc they
cnty yeant, during tbe
of their number.*

That I may nut be
what I have said an ii
ities, 1 will quote the wod
great saint, St Bernani i
Roman people^ wmttn
ago.

Writing to Fope Kugml
the troubles of tlie day,
«^What shall I say of iIm
why, that it tjr fh«« Rottmui pi
could not mon
press what In
What has been so
as tlie wantonness anil
the Romans ? a mcti
|)eace, accustomed to
cruel and unmana^MUe m
day, which knows not lo i
less when it is luiaUe
fight. . * . . 1 know tbe
heart of this people^ but Gol
ful even of these stocici
children to Abraham. • ,
you find for me out of
that populous city, who
as Pope wiihout brilie m
bribe ? And then c^pfsdallj
wishing to bo maaiara, when
professed to be 8€rTatits. !
mise to be trustworthy, Uiat
have the opportunity of iiyul
who trviflt tliem, . . . Tbey
for evil, but they are igq
good. Odious to eartb
they have assaih*d botb
the other ; impious toward \
less toward thiti^
among tbemsehrca, >
neighbors^ inhnman Uiwiidi
«... they love noiie^ ai '
are loved. Too impalleot
sion, too hrlpleta for ndi
portunate to gain an eadpf
they gain it^ un^^teM
have gained it* Thrj bi

U»ry. tbe work whkts l ll«r« I
tml ii wqiUd Qot N ^ISlf «a U*

ne Pope and the SevohUum,

585

dieir tODgne to speak big words, while
tbeir performances are scanty in-
deed.''*

Thus I begin, and now let us con-
tinue the parallel between the Israel-
ites and the Romans.

I have said that, while the Israelites
had God for their king, they had a
succession of great national disasters,
arising indeed really fix)m their falling
off from him ; but this they would
hare been slow to acknowledge. They
fell into idolatry ; then, in conse-
qDence, they fell into the power of
tiieir enemies ; then God in his mercy
visited them, and raised up for them a
deliverer and ruler— a judge, as he
was called — who brought them to re-
pentance, and then brought them out
of their troubles ; however, when the
jndge died, they fell back into idolatry,
•nd then they feU under the power of
dieur enemies again. Thus for eight
yean they were in subjection to the king
of Mesopotamia ; for eight years to the
king of Moab ; for twenty years to the
king of Canaan ; for seven years to
the Uadianites ; for eighteen years to
Ae Amrocmites ; and for forty years
to the Philistines. Afterward Eli, the
kig^ priest, became their judge, and
then disorders of another kind com-
menced. His sons, who were priests
also, committed grievous acts of im-
parity m the holy place, and in other
vtJB caused great scandaL In conse-

rnoe a heavy judgment came, upon
people ; they were beaten in battle
^ the Philistines, and the ark of
God was taken. Then Samuel was
'■W Dp, a holy prophet and a judge,
ttid in the dme of his vigor all went
^U ; but he became old, and tlien he
tppomted his sons to take his place.

'B^ Bernard 1« led to laj Uili to the Pope In cnn-

yi^^M M) of the trouUei cremteil In Rome by Arnald of

y*d >. ** Ab obitu CselesUDi hoc anno invaleticvre

S^j^^^BUMdi rebelUo Komanoram adven»u« Fori-

■SfloB. eodemqoe hcresis dicta Polltlcoruin, nlve

jnMMamiD. Ea erant tempora infellcUtlme, cAm

■Wi ni fpsi, quorum Ades in univerao orbe Jam a

■gpo re Apoatolorum annnnciata semper fUlt, re-

■nnlei aodo 4 PMtlAce, domlnandl cupidinc, ex

iBi htri et dlicipulii Cbristl, flunt soboles et alumni

gglmHwIml Araaldi de BrixiA. VerAm, ciim tu

JbMHan andla, ne pntea omne* e&dem Insanlu per-

cMn, nam oomfrfuret ex nobilium Rumanonim fumi-

Wt, m TtUetkL pra Pontifloe rem affcOunt, etc.'*

JtaQB. ▲biuLIb Mm. 1144^ 4.—/^ Omisid. iv. 2.

They, however, were not like him, and
everything went wrong again. '* His
sons walked not in his ways," says the
sacred record, "but they turned aside
after lucre, and took bribes, and per-
verted judgment." This reduced tlie
Israelites to despair; they thought
they never should have a gootl govern-
ment while things were as they were ;
and they came to the conclusion that
they had better not be governed by
such men as Samuel, however holy he
might be, that public affairs ouglit to
be put on an intelligible footing, and
be carried on upon system, which had
never yet been done. So they came
to the conclusion that they had better
liave a king, like the nations around
them. They deliberately preferred
the rule of man to the rule of God.
They did not like to repent and give
up their sins, as the true means of be-
ing prosperous ; they thought it an
easier way to temporal prosperity to
have a king like the nations than to
pray and live virtuously. And not
only tlie common people, but even the
grave and venerable seniors of the na-
tion took up this view of what was ex-
pedient for them. ** All the ancients
of Israel, being assembled, came to
Samuel, . . . and they said to him . . .
Make us a king to judge us, as all na-
tions have." Observe, my brethren,
this is just what the Roman people are
saying now. They wish to throw off
the authority of the Pope, on the plea
of the disorders which they attribute
to his government, and to join them-
selves to the rest of Italy, and to have
the King of Italy for their king. Some
of them, indeed, wish to be without any
king at all ; but, whether they wish to
have a king or no, at least they wish
to get free from the Pope.

Now let us continue the parallel.
Wlien the prophet Samuel heard this
request urged from such a quarter,
and supported by the people generally,
he was much moved. "The word
was displeasing in the eyes of Sam-
uel," says the inspired writer, "that
they should say, Give us a king.
And Samuel prayed to the Lord.*'

b?»

EmH^luH^t^,

f Aimipfhty God answered him by say*
injT, ** Tiiey biive not rejected tliec,
but tnc;* and ha bade the pmphet
warn the people, what the king the/
fiousiht iiUer wuuld be to them when
at length tfiey had hiai. Samuel jac-
cordingly put before them explicitly
what trentiiient they would receive
from him. ** lie will take your sons/*
he suid, '*iind will put them in hia
chariot:!; and ho will make them hiB
hoi*semen, and his mnninjij footmen lo
go befon* hia clmriots. He will take
the (enlh of your corn and the reve-
nue of your vineyards. Your flocJt^
also he will take, and you shall be hh*
Rervantg/* Then the narrative prn-
Ceeda, " But the people would not hear
the voice of Samue!^ and thej said,
Nay, but there fihall be a king over
us. And we abo will be like all na-
tion b, and our king sliall judge us, and
go out before ua, and fight our battles
for ua,"

Now here the parallel I am draw-
ing \s very exact* It is happier, I
think, for the bulk of a people lo be-
long to a small fitate which makea lit-
tle noise in tlje world than to a lar^^e
one. At least in lliis day we find MmuU
states. Buch an Holland, Belgium, and
Swilzerhuid* have sj)ecial and lingular
teniporul arl vantages. And the Ro-
man pcopk% too, under the sway of
Uie Pope^i, at le-aat have liad a very
easy time of it; but, ahi.s that people
IB not sensible of thi^, or does not al-
low itself to keep it in mind* The
I£otnun8 have not had those civil in-
con vcnIence.H which fall so heavy on
the menit>ers of a 6i^t class power.
The pontitieal government has been
very gentle with them ; but, if once
they were joined to tlie kingilom of
Italy, they would at length find what
It is to attain tenifioral greatue^iis* The
word» of Samuel to the Israelites
woultl be fullilled in them lo the letter.
Heavy taxes would be laid on them ;
Ibeir ehildrt^n would be lorn fi*om
Umih for the army; and they wuiild
incur the other penallie* of an ambi-
tion whicdi prefers to have a share in
a puUtical adventure to being at tbc

head of -'*tohip, Wroui*

not ha. iij (jitr wUhtnlhii

world ; wo mual take oar choiii? Ijf
twceu this advantage and iliai : [jcr-
haps the Roman people would liia
botli to secure this world and the nen,
if they couhl ; perhaps, in srrUnj
both, they may lose both ; and ^f^
haps, when th**y tiave lu§t mon* tiua
they have gained, they may wijih ihm
old sovereign btw!k again, aa ihiy latt
done in other centuries before tliii.juiii
may regret that they liave catisftl
such grievous iVi- ' * ' nl

length they find

In truth, after i^i o

which they hav«* tn •<

I have intii r

prospcniv ^ <

or insi-
erty, ot .

church; but a quetitiou of r;
life or death. The sin of (It
ites waa not that they if
government, but I ha*
God as their king. 'I
liave **a king like ihi
them wa.^, in matter
step in ft series of aci
led them to Ujeir nj
mighty as their God. \\ urn ia R|iiJB
of Samucrs remonstranoeA they ^»
obfltinate, God let them bare thdr
way, and then in rime th»n* heeiai
dissatisfied with f' ^fttj

reasons which iL ^Jil«*

before them in vain. On 8akiD0O^
deadly about a hundred and tmtf
years aAer, the greater pari aUbtm^
tioo broke off ftom hh aoa oo the idT
plea of iSolouion's tyranny, and rlK»(
a new king, who at <"•<<• ♦ >rfthlisfcJ
idolatry all tlirough t' \,

Now, I grants to ^ Udj

Father of course is n of til

Israelites, for they r<jr < ir ,i .*i4ai|lilll
God himself: yet 1 wUh I fma W
forced to believe that a liatrtd of rt^
Catholic religion h \n fact at th^btl^
torn of that ixvolutionarjr spirit wUA
at present seems so powerful ia Rdoie.
Progri»ss, in the tnoutli of i

ing U

pie — of a great toanr people— oieaai
apostasy. Not tliat X would iemj lltf

Ihs JPop^ ami the RwobOion.

587

are sincere Catholics so dissatis-
irith things as tbej were in Italy,
jy are in Rome, that they are
:ht to think that no social change
e for the worse. Nor as if I pre-
d to be able to answer all the oh-
ms of those who take a political
ecular view of the subject. But
[ have nothing to do with secu-
>l]tics. In a sacred place I have
to view the matter religiously,
uld ill become me, in my station
church and my imperfect know-
of the facts of the case, to speak
' against statesmen and govem-
i, lines of policy or public acts,
I were invested with any partic-
nission to give my judgment^ or
iny access to sources of special
oation. I have not here to de-
ne what may be politically more
or what may be socially more
itageoas, or what in a civil point
w would work more happily, er
in an intellectual would tell bet-
ay duty is to lead you, my breth-
look at what is happening, as
%cred writers would now view it
lescribe it were they on earth
o do so, and to attempt this by
) of the light thrown upon pres-
jcurrences by what they actually
written, whether in the Old Test-
t or the New.

5 must remove, I say, the veil
te face of events, as Scripture
3S us to do, and try to speak of
as Scriptui*e interprets them for
Speaking then in the sanctuary,
that theories and schemes about
nment and administration, be
)etter or worse, and the aims of
statesmen and politicians, be
lonest or be they deceitful, these
»t the determining causes of that
of misfortunes under which the
See has so long been suffering,
is something deeper at work than
[ng human. It is not any refusal
Pope to put his administration
new footing, it is not any crafi
)e of men high in public afiairs,
lot any cowardice or frenzy of
ople, which is the sufficient ex-

planation of the present confusion.
What it is our duty here to bear in
mind is the constant restless agency
ovef the earth of that bad angel who
was a liar from the beginning, of
whom Scripture speaks so much.
The real motive cause of the world's
troubles is the abiding presence in it
of the apostate spirit, " The prince of
the power of this air," as St. Paul
calls him, ^ The spirit that now work-
eth on the children of unbelief."

Things would go on well enough
but for him. He it is who perverts
to evil what is in itself good and right,
sowing cockle amid the wheat. Ad-
vance in knowledge, in science, in
education, in the arts of life, in do-
mestic economy, in municipal adminis-
tration, in the conduct of public affairs,
is all good and from Grod, and might
be conducted in a religious way ; but
the evil spirit, jealous of good, makes
use of it for a bad end. And much
more able is he to turn to his account
the designs and measures of worldly
politicians. He it is who spreads sus-
picions and dislikes between class and
class, between sovereigns and subjects,
who makes men confuse together things
good and bad, who inspires bigotry, par-
ty spirit, obstinacy, resentment, arro-
gance, and self-will, and hinders things
from righting themselves, finding their
level, and running smooth. His one
purpose is so to match and arrange
and combine and direct the opinions
and the measures of Catholics and
unbelievers, of Romans and foreign-
ers, of sovereigns and popular leaders
— all that is good, all that is bad, all
that is violent or lukewarm in the good,
all that is morally great and intellectu-
ally persuasive in the bad — as to inflict
the widest possible damage, and utter
ruin, if that were possible, on the
church of Grod.

Doubtless in St. PauPs time, in the
age of heathen persecution, the per-
secutors had various good political
arguments in behalf of their cruelty.
Mobs indeed, or local magistrates,
might be purposely cruel toward the
Christians ; but the great Roman gov-

888

7^ Pope and ih$ RemhtMSi

emment at a distance, the great rnlers
and wise lawyers of the day, acted from
views of large poliej ; they had rea-
gofiB of state, as the kitij^s of the Airth
have now ; alill our Loi-d and hb apos-
tles do not hesitate to pa?s these by,
and declare plainly that the persecu-
tiufi which they nanctioned or com*
mandcd was the word, not of man,
but of Satan. And now in like man*
ner we are not engaged in a mere con*
flict botwoen procrre.ss and reaction,
modern ideas and new, philosophy
and theology, but in one scene of the
never -ending conflict between the
anointed Mediator and the di!vil, the
ehurch and the ivorld ; and, in St.
Pan Is words, " we wrestle not
against flesh and blood, but against
principalities and powers, against the
world-rulera of this darkness, against
the spirits of wickedness in the high
places."

Such is the apostle's judgment ; and
how, after giving it, does he proceed ?
*^ Therefoi*e,** he says, ** take unto you
the armor of God, that you may be
able to resist in the evil day and to
Btand in all things f»erfect. Stand
therefore, having your loins girt about
with truth, and having on the breast-
plate of justice, and your feet shod
with the prr'paration of the gospel of
peace; in all thihgs taking the shield
of faith, whereby you may be able to
quench all the fiery darts of the wick-
ed. And take unto you the helmet of
salvation and the sword of th^ Spirit,
which is the word of God." And
then he concludes his exhortation vnth
words which most appositely bear up-
on the point toward which all that I
have been saying is directed — ^** pray-
ing at all times with all prayer and
atipplieation iu the spirit, and watch-*
ing therein with aU instance and sup-
plkation for all the saints, and for
me,** that is, for the apostle himself,
** that speech may be given me, that I
may open my mouih with confidence
to make known the mystery of the
gospel;*

Uei-e, then, we are brought at leng^t
10 the oonaideratiou of the duty of

prayer for our living apofttle mad
op of bishops, the Popp* 1 «l
tempt to state distinct ly what t« to lie
the ohjed of oar pmven fin- him, and
secondly, what the ipirii m whidi W»
should pray, and so I ihall bdag mj
remarks on this great 6ttf^eel %o in
end.

1. In order to ascertain the «imI
ofy'eet of our prayers at thia tm^ Wt
must a^ertain what is the oettaiam of
them. You know, my bruthrm, and t
have already observed, that the Ifflly
Father has been attacked in hit ten*
poral possessions a^rain and agala ia
these last year^, m I ( tdaag

been saying pRi\* Jt* matt

in his behalf. About aLx jean ag9
the northern pari ion of kis ibiteathftv
oflT his authonly. Shortly aftitr, t
large foreign force, uninvitrd, ai k
would aeetn, by his people nt larjj^—
robbers I will call them — (thii tt wl
a |>oUiical sentiment, hut a kiitmil
statement, for I uever hoard any aoev
whatever his politics, who defenU
their act in itself, bat only oa tii« fhi
of its saprerae eicpediefiee* of 90M
state necessity, or ^ome theoiy «f
patriotism) — a force of Bacnlegiofl
robbers — broke into provineef oouv
to Rome by u sudtlrn movfsaieot* ap4
without any right pxt*ept that of tbi
stronger, got po6ses;$iao nf ihnsk ^
keeps ihmk to this day** Biil iH*

• T': -'

titttt— Jftp*^

b«r

' *^ ?IS!S£ ^""^

JllX

brU lituJ 1

,«c.«ivi»**^

mrut for hIl

JL'S*.

Tin

Inli.

••-

»f-4 m ^

ctettt

IfetiA'

• s ..nur U* Mifl^

*n<l 1

i^^nimm^^

to*i

>. »ntl to f»f* liOi

k;::

.i^PU'^—

Ihl^.M

^im^immm

«U(J k

i^T^JiST

KireHflM U^mmr

«l»tti

niAn wtiaeomparv

-*«i

U> ItUmbm.

♦VAl pWMHilftth

I%e Pope and the Revolution,

580

rages, such as tliese, are never to be
forgotten; but still thej are not the
occasion, nor do thej give the matter,
of our present prayers. What that
occasion, what that object is, we seem
to learn from his lordship's letter to
his clergy, in which our prayers are
required. Afler speaking of the
Pope's being " stripped of part of his
dominions," and ^ deprived of all the
rest., with the exception of the marshes
and deserts that surround the Roman
capital," he fastens our attention on
the fact, that *^now at last is the
Pope to be left standing alone, and
standing face to face with those un-
scrupulous adversaries, whose boast
and whose vow to all the world
it is not to leave to him one single
foot of Italian ground except beneath
their sovereign sway." I understand,
then, that the exact object of our pray-
ers is, that the territory still his should
not be violently taken from him, as
have been those larger portions of his
doounions of which I have already
spoken.

This too, I conceive, is what is
meant by praying for the Holy See.
*' The duty of every true child of Holy
Church," says the bishop, ** is to offer
continuous and humble prayer for the
Father of Cliristendom, and for the
protection of the Holy See." By the
Holy Sec we may understand Rome,
ccmsidered as the seat of pontifical
government We are to pray for

eord. I intend to respect the seat of the chief of the
ehorch, to whom I am erer ready to give, in uccord-
anee with the allied and friendly poirers, all the
fnarantees of independence and security which his
misKvlded adrlsers have in vain hoped to ot)tain
for him flrom the (knaticism of the wicked sect which
emisplres against my authority and against the liber-
tiMof the nation.

** Soldiers ! I am accused of ambition. Tes ; I
have one amUtion,and it is to re-establish tlie princi-
plei of moral order in Italy, and to preserve Biiro)>e
from tlie eontinoal dangers of revolution and war/'

The next day The Times, in a leading article, thus
euDSHieDted on the above :

** Victor Emanuel has in Garibaldi a most formid-
able eompetitor. . . . [Piedmont] must therefore, at
wtiatever ooti or risk, make herself once more mis-
traas of the revolotlon. She must lead that she may
sot be forced to follow. She must revolutionize the
Pkpal States, in order that she may put herself in a
pontloii to arrest a dangerous revolutionary move-
■cot against Venetla. . . . These motives are amply
■aflld«ni to aeeoont for the decisive movement of Vic-
tor BmanoeL He lives in revolutionary times, when
seif-|irMsrvsfinn has superseded all other considera-
llon^ and It vooM be bhlidlili to apply to his sitoa-

Rome, the see, or seat, or metropolis
of St. Peter and his successors. Fur-
ther, we are to pray for Rome as the
seat, not only of his spiritual govern-
ment, but of his temporal. We are to
pray that he may continue king of
Home ; that his subjects may come to
a better mind ; that instead of threat-
ening and assailing him, or being too
cowardly to withstand those who do,
they may defend and obey him ; that,
instead of being the heartless torment-
ors of an old and venerable man, they
may pay a willing homage to the
apostle of Grod ; that instead of need-
ing to be kept down year af\er year by
troops from afar, as has been the case
for so long a time, they may, " with a
great heart and a willing mind," form
themselves into the glorious body-
guard of a glorious master ; that they
may obliterate and expiate what is so
great a scandal to the world, so great
an indignity to themselves, so great a
grief to their father and king, that
foreigners are kinder to him than his
own flesh and blood ; that now at least,
though in the end of days, they may
reverse the past, and, after the ingrat-
itude of centuries, may unlearn the
pattern of that rebellious pcoj)le, who
began by rejecting their God and end-
ed by crucifying their Redeemer.

2. So much for the object of our
prayers ; secondly, as to the spirit in
which we should pray. As we ever
say in prayer, " Thy will be done," so

lion the TTiaxIms of international law which are ap-
plicable to periods of tranqnilllty.

''These being the motives wiiich have impelled
Piedmont to draw the sword, we have next to see
wliat are the grounds on wliich she justifies the step.
The^e grouudsi are two—the extraonliuary misrule and
oppression of the PajiHl government, and the presence
of Urge bands of foreign mercenaries, by which the
country i^ oppre^faed and terrorized. Tlie object is
said to be to give the people an opportunity of «-
pres.-iing their own wishes and the rc-e»tal)]ishmentof
civil order. The king promise* to respect the seat of
the chief of the church^Kotne, we suppose, and its
immediate environs ; but, while holding out this as-
surance, the manifesto speaks of the Poi>c and his ad-
visers in terms of bittorness and acrimony unusual
in the present age, even in a decUratiun of war. lie
win teach the people forgiveness of offences, and
Chrlsthin tolerance to the Pope and his generaL He
denounces the misguided advisers of the pontiff, and
the fanaticism of the wicked sect which conspires
M:ainst his authority and the liberties of tLe nation.
l%is is haP:»h language, and is not inconsistently
seconded by the advance Into the States of the Ghana
of an army of fiO,000 men."

It was tho old fkble of the wolf and the lamb.

7%9 Pope and the SevofftHon,

we must say now* We do not abso-
lutely know God's will in tbm matter;

we know indeed it is hw will that we
should ask; we are not absolutely
snre that it is his will that he should
grunt. The very fact of our praying
shows that we are uncertain about the
event* Wf; pray when we are uncer-
tain, not when we are certain. If wo
were quite sure what Grod intended to
do, whf^ther to continue I he temporal
power of tiie Pope or to end il, we
Rbould not pray* It is quite true in-
deed that the event may depend upan
OUT pmyer^ hut by such prayer h
meant perseverance in pniyer and
union of prayers ; and we never can
be certain that Ihia condition of num-
bers and of fervor has been sufficient-
ly secured. We slmll indeed gain our
prayer if we pray enough ; but, aince
it is ever uncertain what i$ enough, it
b ever uncertain what w*iU be the event
There are Eastern superstitions, in
wliieh it is taught that, by means of a
certain number of religious acts, by
sacrifices, prayers, penances* a man of
necessity extorts from God what he
wishes to gain, so that he may rise to
eupcrnatural greatness even against
the will of God. Far l>e from us such
blasphemous thoughts I We pray to
God, we address the Blessed Virgin
and the holy apostles, and the other
guardians of Rome, to defend the holy
city ; but we know the event lies ab-
solutely in the hands of the All wise,
whose ways are not as our ways,
whose thoughts are not as our thoughts,
and, unless we had been furnished with
a special revelation on the matter, lo
bo simply confident or to predict would
be presumption* Such is Christian
prayer; it implies hope and fear* We
are not certain we shall gain our peti-
tion, we are not certain we shall not
gain it. Were we certain that we
should not, we should give ourselves
to resignation* not to prayer ; were we
certain we should, wo should employ
ourselves, not in prayer, bat in praise
and thank^Hgiving. While wo pray,
then, in behali* of the Pope's temporal
power, wc contemplate both sides of

the alteraatW'«j hia rtCafnliii
his losing it ; and wo pfQ|MMe
botii for thanksgiviiig and
as the event may l>c I
considering each of lbe»c m
present difficulty.

(L) Fin»l, as lo theev«iil
taining his temporal power.
this side of the alteniatir© (I
si>eaking) to be hitrUly prohi
should be very much surprid
the event he did not keep tt
the Romans will not be abl
without him ; it 19 only a
even now which is against li
majority of his suhjwla «fv
ed, so much as cowardly and
ble. Even if they renoanci^ 1
for awhile, they will elianj
minds and wUh lor him agaia*
will find nut that he is thwr nsi
nes9. Their rjty is a plaee
except so tar as it is a pilaoo'
shrines* It is the tomb and (
house of pagjin impiety, ex06\
as it is sanctified and qaidu
the blood of martyrs and th« ]
saints. To inlmbit it would b
ance, were it not for ibo
religion. Babylon b gone, 1
is gone, Fersepoli* b gone
would go, if the Ptrpe wriit*
life is the light of the saaela
never could be a suitable <m^
modem kingdom without a
away of all that make^ it ba
venend^le to the world at lafgi
then, w^ien its new rulrm ti
of it a trim and brilliattt 1
would iind themselves on an 1
soil and a defenceless plabu
truth, the trailitioa of ao^es i
erucy of asso<^iat»0fi4 ititLi^
change in Romeii
kind are parties tu .,. ,.i , i^ji
of the Papc and his citjr. II
omy is a tirst principle m B
politics, whetiicr among OiXll
Protestants ; and when* ^||
secured so well as in that cit;
has so kmg been the #eal m
ercisel Moreover. ih« de^
of Rome is as h n ^ ^ a
which is not of th . ai

n$ Pope and ike Revolution.

591

compatible ^th a creation of modern
poliHcal theories. It is the religious
centre o^' millions all over the earth,
who care nothing for the Romans who
happen to live there, and much for the
msLTtjTed apostles who so long have
kuii buried there; and its claim to
have an integral place in the very
idea of Catholicity is 'recognized not
only by Catholics, but by the whole
world.

Xt is cheering to begin our prayers
with these signs of Ghod's providence
in oar favor. He expressly encour-
ages us to pray, for before we have
be^n our petition, he has be^un to
tblfil it And at the same time, by
beginning the work of mercy without
08, he seems to remind us of that usual
course of his providence, namely, that he
Ofeeans to finish it with us. Let us fear
to be the cause of a triumph being lost
to the church, because we would not
pray for it.

(2.) And now, lastly, to take the
odier side of the alternative. Let us
nppose that the Pope loses his tem-
poral power, and returns to the con-
ation of SL Sylvester, St. Julius, St.
innocent, and other great Popes of
Mily times. Are we, therefore, to sup-
pose that he and the church will come
to naught ? God forbid I To say that
the church can fail, or the see of St.
Peter can fail, is to deny the faithful-
nei8 of Almighty God to his word.
*Tl»oaart Peter, and upon this rock
^ I build my church, and the gates
of hell shall not prevail against it.''
lo say that the church cannot live ex-
pBpt in a particular way, is to make
***Babject to elements of the earth."
The church is not the creature of times
^ places, of temporal politics or

edar caprice. Our Lord maintains
by means of this world, but these
''tina are necessary to her only while
■Ogives them; when he takes them
*^y, they are no longer necessary.
Be works by means, but he is not
IXNiDd to means. He has a thousand
^ys of maintaining her ; he can snp-
fort her life, not by bread only, but by
miy word that prooeedeth oat of his

mouth. If he takes away one defence,
he will give another instead. We know
nothing of the future: our duty is to
direct our course according to our day ;
not to give up of our own act the
means which Gk>d has given us to
maintain his church withal, but not to la-
ment over their loss, wlien he has taken
them away. Temporal power has
been the means of the church's inde-
pendence for a very long period ; but,
as her bishops have lost it a long while,
and are not the less bishops still, so
would it be as regards licr head, if he
also lost his. The eternal God is her
refuge, and as he has delivered her
out of so many perils hitherto, so will
he deliver her stilL The glorious
chapters of her past history are but
anticipations of other glorious chapters
still to come. See how it has been
with her from the very beginning
down to this day. First, the heathen
populations persecuted her children for
three centuries, but she did not come
to an end. Then a flood of heresies
was poured out upon her, but still she
did not come to an end. Then the
savage tribes of the north and east
came down upon her and overran her
territory, but she did not come to an
end. Next, darkness of mind, ignor-
ance, torpor, stupidity, reckhiss cor-
ruption, fell upon the holy place, still
she did not come to an end. Then the
crafl and violence of her own strong
and haughty children did their worst
against her, but still she did not come
to an end. Then came a time when
the riches of the world flowed in upon
her, and the pride of life, and the re-
finements and the luxuries of human
reason ; and lulled her rulers into an
unfaithful security, till they thought
their high position in the world would
never be iost to them, and almost
fancied that it was good to enjoy them-
selves here below ; but still she did
not come to an end. And then came
die so-called reformation, and the rise
of Protestantism, and men said that
the church had disappeared and they
could not find her place. Yet, now
three centuries after that even^Aof,

my brethren, tbe Holy Church come to
an end ? has Prolestantiatn weak«:Ded
her powers, terrible enemy as it 8€*em-
ed to be when it arose ? has Prciles-
tantism, that bitter, energetic eiiemv of
tbe Holy See, harmed the Holy Sec ?
Why, there never has beea a time,
since the first age of the churcli when
there has been such a succi^ssion of
holy Poped, as dince the reformation.
Protestantism had been a gi'eal inflic-
tion on such as have succumbed to it ;
but it has even wroujjjht benefits for
those whom it has failed to eedttce.
By the mercy of Gixl it has b«5en
turned into a spiritual gain to the
members of Holy Church.

Take again Italy, into which Prot-
estantij^m has not enicretl, and Eng-
land, of which it has gained posRiia-
siou. Now I know well thiit, when
Oiiholics are good in Italy, tbey are
very good ; I would not deny that lh*.^y
Attain there to a height and a force of
taintlinesH of which we seeiu to have
DO Specimens here. This, however, is
llie €OAe of souls whom neither the
prasenoe nor tiie absence of religious
€gl€aii6a inrould aflTect for the better or
tbe worse. Nor will I attempt the im*
po$9iible task of determining the nniount
of faith and obedience among Catho-
lics resjiectively in two countries so
different from each other* But, look-
ing at Italian and English Cathohcs
externally and in their length and
brcadtJi, I may leave any Protestant
to decide, in which of the two there is
at this moment a more demonstmtive
faith, a more impressive religioiisnes.'^,
a more generous piety, a more steady
adherence to the cause of the \Ut\y Fa-
ther- The English are multiplying
religious bndding>^« decorating churcii-
es, endowing monasteries^ educating,
preaching, and converting, and carry-
ing oH* in the currt^nt of their enthu-
siasm numbers even of those who are
external to tlie church; the Italian
•talesmen, on the contrary, io our bish*
W9 words, "imprison and exile the
bfalOfM and clergy, leave the flocks
iMuHir shepherds, confiscate the
ilttl«h'« revcQuei, suppi-ess the mon-

asteriee and eonvent^ iiieoqia
clesiasties and i^i^ioiii la lU
plunder the churches aad m«|
braries, atid expoee religksAi
stripped and bleeding in ef«j
the Catholic reig^ In the pj
her ministon^berflttemineiili^l
devoted members, to be olJMB
fane and bhi^hemoufl fi^ioi
so brave, intelligent, vigorous-fl
race as the Italians, and h^ t)n tm
century not the sixtet ! i

ence of any formal pru._ . .., i
places* the act of the ntlcrs li
of the people. At the cml %
centuries Protestiint EngliLnd <
more Catholics who are foyal al
getie in word and dt;ed ibao i
Italy. So harmleoe I I

tence of the reformar i

to eliminate from the churdi i
corruptions, and it ba^ fail^'dl
what it has don<: r

done ; it has br* i

fusion ; and, Io tl4 diamayt it I
ccoded in purifying and stieog
Ca t hoUc commu n i tics, i

It is with thp-*' rhniiThti f
brethren, with tli ii»a

expectation, ijf y^f^** .A>ufldci
we now ct)me before our Gidi
him to hivve mvstx'y on his cl
vant^ his own vicar, in thiii lioi
We come to him, like the
lei, in humitiutiou for our own
the sins of our kings. ' ^m

fathers, atid our pei)| |

the church ; and iJierdbm uai
Miserere and the Litany of the ||
in a time of fa.^t. And we ocm
htm in the bright and glad I
soldiers who kjiow they axe i
leading of an invioable kiof.
With beating hearts to t/se
about todo! ^" -1 il. r.,r..r,v it fi
adorn our .»in|

hangings aii^i (iiu>M|H>«ij^ umr
on a day of fesiivaL Wa kl
we are on the winning side, (
the pravers of the poor nad I
and de^ * h do mofne, wl
edinrt u than alt tli4

and all tlio rcsomcet oi ill
This mrmth of OeHoter itike «

I%e SourcB of Labor.

593

Tcrsaiy of that day on which the pray-
en of St. Pius, and the Holy Rosary
Kiid by thousands of the faithful at his
bidding, hroke forever the domination
of tbe Turks in the pn^^at battle of Le-
paDto. Grod will give us what we ask,
or he will give us something better. In
this spirit let us proceed with the holy
rites which we have begun — in the pres-
ence of innumerable witnesses, of Grod
tbe judge of all, of Jesus the mediator

of the new covenant, of his mother
Mary our immaculate protectress, of
all the angels of holy church, of all the
blessed saints, of apostles and evan-
gelists, martyrs and confessors, holy
preachers, holy recluses, holy virgins,
of holy innocents taken away before
actual sin, and of all other holy fo-iIs
who have been purified by suffering,
and have already reached their heav-
enly home.

From Chambers's Journal.

THE SOURCE OF LABOR.

SciEKCE has taught us that the
processes going on around us are but
changes, not annihilations and crea-
tiong. With the eye of knowledge
we see the candle slowly turning into
inrisible gases, nor doubt for an in-
>tAnt that the matter of which the
ttodlc was composed is still existing,
K»dy to reappear in other forms.
But this fact is true not only of mat-
ter itself, but also of all the influences
that work on matter. We wind up
tbe spring of a clock, and, for a whole
week, the labor thus stored up is slow-
ly expended in keeping the clock go-
ing. Or<again, we spend five minutes
of bard labor in raising the hammer of
• pile-driver, which, in its fall, exerts
aDthat accumulated labor in a single
nstant. In these instances, we easily
Ke that we store up labor. Now, if
We pat a dozen sovereigns in a purse,
^ none of them be lost, we can take
^doien sovereigns out again. So in
U>or, if no labor be lost, as science as-
*'(ti--for the inertia of matter, its
^ deadness, so to speak, which
'Boders it incapable of spontaneously
FNudog work, also prevents its dc-
*Ofing woA when involved in it —
we shonld be able to obtain back with-
Mt deduction aU our invested labor
wbea we please.

TOk IV. S8

Imagine a mountain stream turning
an overshot wheel. It thus falls from
a higher to a lower level. A certain
amount of labor would be required to
raise the water from the lower level
to the higher ; just this amount of la-
bor the water gives out in its fall, and
invests, as it were, in the wheel. If,
however, when arrived at the lower
level, the water were to demand (^f the
wheel to be pumped up again, the
slightest trial would show that it
would ask more than it could obtain,
though not mor^ than it had given.
The wheel, if questioned as to the
cause of its inability, must reply as
others have done, tiiat it has slmt up
part of the labor in investments which
it cannot realize. The reason, as com-
monly stated, is, that friction has de-
stroyed part of the labor. The labor
is not, however, destroyed. Science
has shown tliat heat and labor are con-
nected ; labor may bo turned into heat,
and heat into labor. The labor ab-
sorbed by friction is but turned into
heat. If, however, we try to extract
labor from the heat thus diffused
through the differeni parts of the
water-wheel, and make it available,
we find ourselves quite at a loss. The
heat gradually diffuses itself through
surrounding bodies, and, so far as we

594

The Sauree af Labor,

are concerned, tlie la1x»r is wasted,
though it still exist, like Cleopfttm's
f»earl diissolvcd in the cup of viiiegiir.
If no labor is losU so neitlier U anj
crented. The labor we exert h but
the f!X[jenditure of labor stored up iu
our frames* just as the labor inre^ted
IQ the woimd-iip spHn'^ keeps the clock
going* Whence, then, doe^ all this
labor origin all J come ? We see the
wasfe — how is compensation made?
The nnswpT is aimple and ea^y to give.
All tfie labor done under the sun h
TiniMy done by it. The h'ght and heat
wliieh the &tun supplier are turned into
labor by ihc organ ixa I ions which exLst
upon the earth. These organizations
may be roughly divided into two
classes — the collectors and the expend-
el's of the sun's labor. The fi«t
merely collect the sun's labor, so as
to make it available for llic other
|cla'?s; while, just as the steam-engine
fe the medium by which the steam
gives motion, so this secund class is
the medium by which the sun*s heat is
turned into actual labor.

Hdll, the sun doe^ not work only

llln*ough organized labor: his metQ

I HI och finical influence is very groat

[With the moon^ — the only fiecon<l po^t

the deigns to fill — ^he provinces the

I li'les by his ultrar-tion 0:1 the s^m. But

I for the friction of the earth and sea,

I the tido.§, once set in motion, would

I rise and tall without any further effort ;

r^nt the work done iu overconiing the

■friction is, though due to the sun and

mooa^ not extracted from thmn, but

by tlieru fi*om the earth. For it would

tiike a vast effort to cause the earth to

eciise rotuling. All this effurt ib, 113 it

wore, stored up in the revolving earth.

As the tidal watei-s, then, rub along

the bed of the sea, or the watorH on

which ihcy re^l and the adjacoul eoagts,

tliis friction teuds to make the earth

move faster or slower, according to the

direction in wliich the tidal tiow td«

The general effect is, however, that

Ute friction of the tides makes the earth

revolve more slowly; in other worda^

tliat part of the energy of ix)tation of

ihu earth, 90 to spv^ak, is oomiumed in

rubbiii till

tlie V, . tluit

in uncit^r mining 4*u
away our betudies^ \
euQ and moon fi-otn
up in the rotation of
diminution of rotatio
smalt a8 scarcely to
the most refine4 obaer
reality of it is noi
nized; and tliis p«
parently go on till
rotate on its axis, and pr
constantly to the «au.

Thus we see thai the (
the land by the sea, %ai
a gcologic-al pomt of
due to the sun*a ncltoi
he the source of the
wo enjoy, but he nuh
vast seditut-'nJari' h*^-\'
large a part of of 1

mixing the in-
anrl moulding our

By heating the asi
wind^, and some of the
peuded is made use of by
ing his windmiUd and
wares acrosj? the sea.
another expenditure pf
more immediately n^(i
cvaponitin;^ ijje
of water, lie load* the
ture, which, vrhtrn in
mountnhj'|)eaka or cold
loses its heat^ and, bc£
falls a^ rain or snow,
rivftrs are replentshi*il, which
time supplied the greater
hibor cmjdoyed in
though the invention
engine i^ fast reducing
value of thid supply of

But vast as the
exerted is, antl o^el
it ia surpassed in
labor cxeitcd througli
ings. The-abovo
one defect : on tlie
capable of being stored op
dogfvc; wo must employ
ture gives thcui to us,
istence, however, poAfesaci
of storing up labor to a

I%e Source of Labor,

595

gree. The means it adopts are not
mechanical, but chemical. The forma-
tion of chemical compounds is attended
with the giving out of heat, whicli, as
we have said before, is equivalent to
labor, and if of sufficient intensity, can
briu be made avaihible as labor, as in
the steam-engine. Now we take iron
ore, consisting of iron in combination
with other substances. By means of
great heat the iron is set free in the
smelting^fumace. The iron, then, in
ita change of form has, as it were,
taken in all this heat. If, now, we
take this iron, and keeping it from
the influence of the air, reduce it to
a very fine powder, and then suddenly
expoee it to the air, by the force of nat-
oral affinity it will absorb the oxygen
of the air, and in so doing give out
the heat before required to set it free
from the oxygen ; and if the iron be
in nmoli enough portions, so that the
process is sufficiently rapid, we may
•ee the iron grow red hot with the
heat thus disengaged.

Now, pktntfl and trees, by the aid of
the solar light and heat, remove vari-
008 substances, carbon especially, fi'om
what seem to be their more natural
(^binations, and in other combina-
tioDs store them np in their structures.
Take a young oak-tree with its first
tender leaves ; if deprived of the sun's
light and heat, its growth would be
■tajed, and its life die out. But with
^ aid of tlie sun's rays, it absorbs
euboo from the gases in the air, each
putiele of carbon absorbed being ab-
•oibed by the power of the sun, through
^ agency of the plant ; and with each
particle of carbon stored up is also, as
^ were, stored up the labor of the sun
^ which that particle was sot free
^ its former fetters. The sap of
k plant thus enriched returns in its
fovr^ and by some mysterious process
* CQidled into cells and hardened into
*ood Bi^ the work by which all this
^ accomplished lies hid m the wood,
fod not only is it there, but it is there
>( a greatly condensed state. To form
a httle ring of wood round tlie tree,
M ao eighth of an inch across it,

took the sunshine of a long summer,
falling on the myriad leaves of the
oak.

Lemuel Gulliver, at Laputa, was as-
tonished by seeing a philosopher aiming
at extracting sunbeams ' from cucum-
ber. Had he but rightly considered
the thing he would have wondered at
any one's troublin<r to make a science
of it. The thing has always been
done. From Adam and Eve in the
garden of Eden eating sweet fruits,
through the onion-eating builders of
the pyramids, down to the flesh-eating
myriads of our hind, this process has
always been going on. The active
life of reasoning mnn, and his limit-
less po Wei's of invention, need for their
full development a vast supply of la-
lK)r. By means of the vegetable king-
dom, the sun's work is stored up in a
number of organic substances. Man
takes these into his system, and in the
vessels and fibres of his body they re-
sume their origlmil combinations, and
the labor of tlie sun is given out as
muscular action and animal heat. To
allow a larger supply of labor for
man's intellect to work with. Provi-
dence created the herbivorous races.
Some of these further condense the
work of the sun involved in plants, by
taking these plants into their systems,
and storing up the work in them in
Iheir flusli and fat, wliich, after some
preparation, are fit to be received into
the frame of man, there, as the simpler
vegetiible substances, to supply heat
and labor. Others, extracting work
from the vegetable kingdom, just as
man does, and mostly from parts of
the vegetable kingdom that are not
suited to the organs of man, are valu-
able to man as sources of labor, since
they have no power to invent modes
of emplopng this labor to their own
advantage. Man might have been
gifted with a vaster frame, and so with
greater power of labor in himself, but
such a plan had been destitute of elas-
ticity ; and while the savage would have
basked in the sun in a more extended
idleness, the civilized man had still
lacked means to execute his plans.

7%e &uret of LAor»

So that good providence which formed
man deviled a further raeiins for
supplying his wants. Instead of
placing him at once on a new-formed
planet, it first let the Bun spend its la-
bor for countless ages upon our world*
Age by asre^ much of this labor was
stored up in yaat vegetable growths*
Accumulated in the abysses of the
sea^ or sunk to a great depth by the
ooUapse of supporting strata, the for-
mations of a later age pressed ami
compacted this mass of organic matter.
The beds thus formed were purified by
water, and even by heat, and at last
raised to witliin the reach of man by
subterranean movements. From this
reservoir of labor man now draws
rapidly, driving away the frost of to-
day with the sunshine of a million
years ago* and thrashing this year's
harvest with the power that c^me to
our earth before com grew upon iL

Sucli are the pitwe^ises by which
the sun's power is collected and stored
up by the vegetable kingdom in a form
Butiiciently condensed to be available
for working the machinery of the bod-
ies of men and beasts, and abo to as*
sist man in vaster expenditures of la-
bor* It IS most interesting to trace
such procesi^es, and not only interest-
ingf but also instruct ivCh, for it ^hows
ns in what direction we are to look f r
our sources of labor, aud will at once
expose many common delusions* One
hears, perhaps, that something will be
found to supplant steam. Galvanism
may be named ; yet galvanism is
generaled by certain decoiopositinns —
of metal, for instance — and this metal
bad first to be prepared by the agency
of coal, and in its deeompositiun can
give out no more labor than ihc coal
before invested in it. It is as if one
should buy a steam-engine to pump up
water to keep his mill-wheel going.
The source of all labor is the sun*
"Wo cannot unmediatcly make much
me of his rays for the purposes of
work ; they are not intense enough ;
they must be condensed. The vegeta-
ble world akme at present soems capa-
t>le of doing this \ aod its past reeiilCB

of coal, peat, petrcdmnn., rtc,
ent rpsujts of wtwd and ft
matj^ly all we have to look

To say that roan will ev
pendent upon the vegetable^
all his work may be eoritiitH
but there is c»3rtainly great mH
lieve it. The Run's labor b|
plied in such a dih>te<i form, si
ijujinlity continually Mippiiedt
packed in a very small ^^^
man can only subject matt/3«fl
ences in the muss. The litt
of carbon rhat the plant 1
instant is beyond his krm
chinery he could mak*? wottkii
enough : ii would be like tr|
an artery with ilio biggest
board the Great Kastcm.
ed existence possesses macli
enough to effect tlie*o snui
and to avail itself of the^jj
stahnents of Uibor. At pr|
machinery is beyond our rti
sion, and possibly ^ i' -\

Nalui^e prefers that i n

keep out of the kit is i ij
into her fiots and [ Liiin bt
tbaiikfuhiess thi^ meal she pn

Some interesting rcjults i%
*what has been Btate^l above.
that we are consuming noi
present aUowauce of the sii
but also a great deal more, i
formation ut coal in our age
coDsmnptJon, which is not
Mother earth will ctmainl
as we caa see, some day br
^ch a ^onsammation is p
however, in other quarters. \
heat, unites miraealously t^
must gradually \»i dissipates
S[mce. There are rco^ouii tA
that the planets must ultjjxi
into the sun. These Uuog^t.
possess to us no pnelioal
interest. Such countleas ^
elapse ere ihey aftd naii'l
ooudition upon eardi tltat^il
can gravely consider Ihsai ai
tng. Tho chicsf tnte rest Ihej
moral Like the nuui's %
appeared t«j the " ^ h

write, » Meoe, M ,'z\\

Poem. 597

eiglied, measured, limited, doomed) hidden from onr view behind the screen
our material world, and dimly point of matter, that shall make things
some power that stands, as it were, new.

OMOIKAL.

POEM.

BY E. HOWARD.

While wandering by the mountains
And musing bj the streams,
I asked myself if ever thus
My life would pass in dreams.

I gathered the little pebbles
The waves threw on the sand :
The rippling waters seemed to say,
« There is a better land !"

And while thus my steps were straying,
Above, in azure far,
I saw a beacon's streaming light —
The glorious evening star !

My soul, enraptured, then exclaimed :
^ Hail, beauteous star of even !
Wilt thou, while speeding into dawn,
Bring me the will of heaven ?"

I watched it in its onward course,
Until its golden glow
Was lost behind the western clouds.
And left me wrapped in woe.

I struggled hard to free my soul
From brooding thoughts of care.
Till morning broke, when, with the star,
These words fell on the air :

** No more let earthly passion move.
Nor wearied hopes bemoan,
A life that has a Grod to love,
A heaven to call its own!"

The star had kindled hope
And raised my soul in prayer ;
The clouds that rolled between
Foretold a life of care.

I bowed my head, and humbly knelt,
Submissive to his will.
Who, when the waves were troubled most,
8«id, ''Peacer and all w^ stilL

598

Th Godfrey Family ; or^ Quuiums of ihe Dag.

THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OP THB]

CHAPTEB XVin.
A FnOPOBAL : A3KU Sf ORE TJLkN OXE.

The sumtnona to London was on
tbe buBiness of cutting oft* the entail
to the estates as proposed at the be-
ginning of the last chapter. Mn
Godfrey, wlioae love for Hester cer-
tainly approached to dotage, had de-
cided to gratify his darling's wishes ;
and to avoid future confusion, bad de-
cided to allow her to come of age at
eighteen, and to enter on the enjoy-
ment of the estates he destined for
her, subject to an annuity for himself.
To give the mutter a semblance of
justice, be proposed to pension off
the rest of the family in the. same
manner, thus settling their claims to
Uie property during his life, as a^er
his death* What was wanting to this
plan was Eugene's acceptance of a
present annuity in the stead of his
inheritiince ut death.

The proposal made to liini was by
no mtvins a liberal one, considering
the wealth of the family and the ex-
pectations in which he bad been reared.

*^ Three thouBand ponnds a year
for life, now, instead of fifteen thou-
sand in reversion lo descend to my
posterity; the proposal is preposter-
ous/* said EugcnCt ** especially as I
was always given to understand that
I might look to receive a sum equal
to that on my coming of age, which I
shall do in three weeks* time^"

" That promise was conditional,
young man/' said Mr, Godfi'ey, some-
what sternly ; ** conditional at legist by
implication ; could I have foreseen that
jou would have disgraced my family.
It would not have been made.

** Disgraced !" ejaculated Eugene.

** Brother,** hiterposcd Hesterf anx-

ious to avoid any expreBsion |
ed feeling. " you ba% e
position my father aiabitiii
you cannot hold office
ment; you cannot
of Parliament ; you canool ]
magistrate ;* or take aoj
in the work of society.
tliousand pounds a yeaf *
all your j^ei^cnal wants,"

*' You have assumed a
my good sister ; a groat
than you can prove, I think.
derstand this matter rightly, it I
self who are be to benefited ^
rangemeuL You want to v.xf
alize, to found a new Utofiial
I might du that at least as
woman."

** No, for you beKerve not in I
ciple. Money in your liandji, J
would sUik ; you might batJ4j
or convents, but forward
sion of the race yoy
bare-footed CarmeUte nmkd
your eetimatioo tliaa a mail
talent and industry to a
rounded by means of enjoy
ray father objects conscionii
his immediate anceston^ ^
jijct to appnjpriate the bu
perty lo a phantasm^ He i
maintenance ^ufierior to the
your theory uphold*, B^J
try your own principle
tion, of poverty, if yoa i
an ammity of three the
Tlie allotment whieb wffl
mine is in my eyes, and in i
an investment fur the
of which I am but a dir
to the world tliat vrliidl

•A'

«^M«b w« write tl» #«tt I
from tba KngM T

The Godfrey Family; or, Questiani ofOe Day.

699

take the portion you have
in which the world has no
-spirituality. G)nscientiously
er has strained a point to offer
much, for he looks upon the
an of your views as iigurioos
iman race.**

3 was a long pause, a long
then Eugene said, *'I must
le to consider; my signature
ot be of any avail until I am
and it wants three weeks to
e. In a month's time I will
1 an answer."

ne, after a vain attempt to see
her, returned to the town in
Buphrasie resided. He was
ermined to have the interview
!0 long vainly sought for. On
erview greatly depended hfs
etermination.

d not call on her at her moth-
de. He waylaid her as she
iming home from giving her
with a few earnest words in«
er to permit him to lead her
^eluded grove where often he
sed on her perfections, and
length, he took courage, and
forth, as much by gesture as
I, his long pent-up tale of love,
hidden out of reverence, a
e which now gave way to the
>f placing her in a more suita-
ion than the one she at present
, although still falling short of
rh she was calculated to adorn,
tisie listened with profound
; certainly not coldly. She
»reciated the young man's de-
she fully believed his tale.
urs filled her eyes as he pro-
bat she was long in answer-

I take this silence for consent,
>hiasie ?" said Eugene.
asie shook her head. ''No,
oa may not, my kind friend,"
. ''I am silent because I
i how to express my sense of
th, of your kindness, of your
stedness, in fitting terms, and
ay my words with a refusal.
a propose can never be. An-

other vocation is mine. Yet believe
me that my gratitude, my friendship,
my esteem, are, and ever must remain,
your own. I thank you earnestly for
the long forbearing and silent sympa-
thy which I have ever received from
you."

" Your tones are solemn, Euphrasie.
You are not one to act a part, and say
no when you mean yes. You have
seen this proposal possible, you have
weighed it; is it indiscreet to ask in
confidence your reasons ?"

" Is not all explained by the words,
another vocation is mine ? May I not
recall to your memory the explana-
tion I once gave at Durimond Cas-
tle?"

" But, Euphrasie, in this country,
where Cathofics are barely tolerated,
you can scarcely be a nun."

''I think, indeed, that at present
there seems little likelihood that I
shall be what the world calls a nun ;
but I am none the less certain that I
am called to serve Gk>d by following
the three evangelical counsels."

^ But as a married woman, Euphra-
sie, surely you could serve God also.
Marriage in the Catholic Church is
exalted to the dignity of a sacrament,
and I would respect your self-imposed
duties not only of devotion but of
charity also. I would share the
cares you now bestow on my aunt's
comfort, and — "

^ I believe it, Eugene, but it cannot
be. I dare not resist the voice which
forbids me to bind myself by human
ties. We are Catholics, Eugene ; we
know that a vocation is something
real ; that not to respond to it is to en-
danger salvation, is to risk the abstrac-
tion of that grace which is of all treas-
ures the most valuable.'' .

Eugene replied not. There was
a long pause. Euphrasie was agi-
tated beyond her wont, and was glad
to avail herself of a seat fixed beneath
the shade of a tree. Eugene rested
his forehead against the tree. Sud-
denly he seized her hand and pressed
it to his lips, but he spoke not. The
warm tears were pouring down his

GOO

7%« Godfrey Faw^; ar, QueMtiQiu of ik

cheeks. Oli 1 it 12 agonizing to iH^hold
a dtroDg mait wchcp. No woEoan at
leoj^t cull see it unmoved ; eliU less
Eupliniflie, who beneath an impassive
exterior bore a feelings tender heart-
Sctu-cely Ic&s affected than himt^elf
ehn took hxA hand in both of hers^, and
faltered out : '* Eugent% mj friend, mj
brotber, the day will come when you
will rejoice at this hour's d«.'cisiou, and
make it the subject of your earnest
thanksgiving. No Catholic can have
witnessed your noble struggle foi*
truth, your disinterestedness, your
magnanimity, without feeling tliat fur
you, too, GikI has a noble misj^ion in
6tore« As yet you arc scarcely con*
scions of what you wonld lose were you
to felier your&elf by human ties. Your
studies as yet Imve occupied the inteU
lect iiomewliat excUisively. Contro*
versy was necessary while you were
an^uring yourself of tlie grounds of
faith, of the reasonableness of the
creature's trusting to the solemn prom-
iee of the Creator, of the unerring
hi fallibility of the church founded by
Christ, and sustained by Im holy spirit.
Your learned research, con ducted in
Bim]>lieity of spirit, has led you to the
» temple of truth. You have entered,
but as yet its most wondrous teach-
ings are to be unfolded, to be contem-
plated, to be realized in practice. Your
I soul is too noble to content itaelf with
the thing!? of eiirth ; your heart needs
pure, exalted realities to love, and those
It will find only here.'* (She took
I Irom her bo@om a small tvory cructfiy.
I irhich she placed in his liand as she
B|K>ke.) ** Everlasting love speaks to
L you from tliis cross, my beloved friend*
[Xeave other etudies for awhile to con-
\ temjTlate its lessons in all its beanngSi
|nd a divine rapture will fill your in-
it doul ; you will live in him only
irho is life and light and love, and your
Ih^tLTi will need to pour itself out for
'him, through him, in him* Suffering
for Christ will become blissful, and
JJyour whole being will shape itself to
(one aun« his will, whom to serve is
to find the truest happiness on earth,
as it is also the only happmess hi bea^

veni OhldArwlI
gene, of what it is Co love
to feel his love for us witJirn
you would not
ButGodhimsil L^dt

ms tract you in hi* woi
you will be happy bey
hnagiiiatioD*'*

Euphraate spoke u
and it waa so rarely flkai
any speech of ^joii
tliat tlie eifcet was
ed. Again there was
Eugene gazed on the
it to his lips, tlieo hid It
At length he said : " Euph:
but submit. 1 will do my
low the beautiful course yoi
Bcribcd for me* But err I
since leuve you I mustt
one favor T*

Euphrasie signtfii*d _

** It is thl«<, then : Yoo hm
friend and brother^ May I
for abrotl*er's privi
fecrion ? X will never
more, if you will pn^mUa
But let your brother Iks of
di*ar sister, confide to your
plans, and give lijoi tho
helping them forward.
no c^strangemcnt betw
sie/'

** There shall be &oiie»
you, save such as pmdexiod i
Your nobleness, yourdisuileei
claim my admiration, anil |
you, my brother, to inform ]
I need your p cot erred aid
must . forgive me if, for
least, I convfirse with ^-oa
the medium of our
Let our excited feclii
to subside inio a dmco
frame ere we meet apuii«
And now may the liolj
you in tlieir kecphig*

She was gone ere Euj
ply, Hid amid the foUi
the courage to follow h
of his resolves ho nemaii
Wliat now were to hi]
of heij9hi|»^ Uie thooghli^
ting his name to

The Chdfrejf Family; or, QueOiant of the Dap.

GOl

At the end of the month Eugene sign-
ed the deed which deprived him for
all time of a fair estate. An addition-
al motiTe for his doing this was found
in the reflection that he had no right
to be depriving his mother of her pri-
vate property. He returned the deed
of gift to her as soon as he received
the proposed annuity. There were no
bells rang, according to the custom

how entirely he obeyed her bidding.
Under these circumstances she might
fairly hope for success. Large iron
factories on the one hand, and large
cotton factories on the other, were
erected on a scale calculated to employ
many hundred hands, and to bring into
extensive operation the new steam-
power that then absorbed scientific at-
tention. Mr. Godfrey was delighted,

fiom immemorial ages, when the heir^ for it brought him into frequent con-

of the Godfrey family came of age ;
there was no feasting, no rejoicing
among the tenantry. All was silence
and gloom, it was as if the very air
were hung with a funeral pall. Mrs.
Godfrey seemed stricken to the heart.
Bot when the transactions became
known which disinherited Eugene
and appropriated an unfair proportion
of the estate to the youngest sister, all
the family were roused. Vexed as
tbej were at Eugene's religious de-
monstrations they were not prepared
to give Hester so exclusive a prefer-
ence. Mrs. Grodfrey, especially, felt the
transaction as most bitterly unjust.
She yearned for Eugene's presence,
«nd it was not permitted her. Scarce-
ly coold she tolerate the sight of Hes-
ter in the house. Her melancholy in-
creased. Alas ! poor mother 1

PBOQ]

Hester was m ,
dodng fiither settL

tact with the most scientific men of the
day. The operations necessarily at-
tracted public attention, and Mr. Gx>d-
frey as director of the scientific opcra-
ti<mi3, with Hester as deviser of a new
sraeme for rendering the "popula-
tions" happy and progressive, were
continually besieged by a concourse of
visitors, eager to understand the new
" idea."

Hester's arrangements were on a
magnificent scale. She started on the
principle of mutual co-operation united
to division of labor. Instead of sepa-
rate dwellings for her employes, she
had large boarding-houses built. These
were provided witli halls, refectories,
baths, lecture-rooms, reading-rooms,
libraries, and, lastly, schools, which in
those days were rare for the laboring
population. For since the suppression
of the monasteries and convents, the
schools in which the good religious
had taught the children of England to
love Grod and their neighbor had been
^^^^ shut up, education had fallen to a
' ^ V> ^'sarfully low standard in this sect-di-
\ijvided kingdom.

'^ "lester was a severe disciplinarian,
' ttle compassion for the weakness

riclH/^% 5. Uest
woipt only HriJi lit
Hid flfft^Q, of lium

^ Yorkshire farms, but'Stfi fl^^' of liuman nature. She intended her
be pniwofifl

ivrenues, that she might
^ capital to carry into execution
kr philantbTOinc plans. Hester was
endowed with many brilliant qualities.
She waa, as it were, " bom to reign."
She perfectly understood her own dig-
^9 perfectly realized her own power
^ intellect, waa well aware that both
kr father and his man of business
veie her tools, and she managed ac-
Mingly with intuitive prudence, not
penuttiDg Mr. Godfrey to perceive

l.*^eople should become intellectual ; and
when she shortened the hours of labor,
expressly to give time to cultivate the
mind, when she hired lecturers and
bought books, she felt herself aggriev-
ed tliat these were not responded to.
Her people were well fed at a com-
mon table ; they were well sheltered
and accommodated ; why should they
not be intellectualized ? How dis-
couraged she felt when she found she
was speaking in an unknown tongue to

60i

The Godfrey Family ; or, QueiHom qf A$

the adults among her o|>eratives. Thej
I hardly coDsidered short hours a bencs-
[fit, when tbej were coirjpelk*d to sit
[ftad listen to subjects in wlitch thoj
htook no interest* " A ^\mA of ale and
f » j)i[jc of 'backy would do a poor body
[far more good than all this preaching,
[and *tain*t to save our souLs either/*
There were other dtfficuhieji in this
f commonwealth : the young men and
I Women were on different Hides of the
ll>uilding, and certain rules were laid
[down to secure good conduct, but these
lifule:? were very difficult to enforce,
t iiiid the dismissals for disonler became
I frequent. The operatives began g|o
I call the place a jail Hester woWid
I not yield, but she turned more itreau*
.011 sly to the children. Here she had
lettiT sticce^s, and she pf>ent days and
weeks in providing for the better edu-
I cation of these little ones. **Thc elder
ones are already formed," she argue<lt
I *• but we will give these young ones
[better tastes, better habits, and they
will become intelligent and happy/*
M- dc Villeneuve was a fre(|uent
jTisitor at these ioslitutions, for the
[character of Hester interested hira
I greatly, and he was constantly endeav-
foring to draw her attention to the mo-
] tives that actuated her p4fDpI<% and to
I the probabilities of their prmlacing
[lasting results.

" Tell me/' said he, " how ia a know-
I ledge of the material law to protiuco
[happiness? We know that a steel
[knife cuts flesh ; will that knowledge
I reconcile one to the loss of hi^ arm
I when tlie sturgeon has cut it ofF in the
pmost tnrtsferly manner?*'

' No," saiil Hester, ** but perhapd a
[knowledge of the material law might
Lhave prevented the nece-ssity of cutting
off the arm at all. Much of disease is
caused by ignorance. To banish pain
needii a wide acquaintance witli the
whole range of laws which govern our
being* To know and practise one law
and neglect another would but result
in pain."

*' You will require a life of scientific
research. I see ; and after all, a^ we all
bqpo witli ignorance and heipleesaesfl^

we must sufler mime {
apprenticeship. For
cannot teach an infant to <
paTnle?»sly,''

** But liecans*^ we <
thing, shall we do i

** That werr n ^wc
it is not Tii.' ' ^ (

But might

the principle of actions 4
tempt to reptulatc for ot|"
system ? Your f » % teriof I
are splendid ; your biws i
but will you insure theii
What motive do yon pr

^ I have expelled tiiai«
suitable remonatiaoce, would ^
form." said Hedtcr*

'* A vei7 effective pf
kind hostess, bat it is jiaM |
evetitaally saeli a pnustu
a desert. The motive [
severance comes from wii
sire must be in rhr be
standing m ve, thie '

accept, the * i^i

until you have Mcnr
power, your anting
insecure basis. Von
men to choose good ; ymi {
them studious by proviflii
or moral by denonnciiii
ties* of immorality. Yoal
passions, excita tJistes.
knowledge of physics do I

** There ia other knowl
mere phygiies— classical 1

** And will classical
it ? Will reading Virgil
tend to evolve moral ^

** Wliy not I Knowl

*' Because thry do not
their knowleilg^j they are
dissipated and worliihrKs.
volitjes of the youn|* men *i
were always diHgustJAg lo
theo they are tiat remit/
they maj hare been to
they teanied nottnag ii8clbl^i|
of tlie maleHal warld,*' |

**But^saidlLde

2!fe Chdfrey Family ; or, Quettians of the Bay.

603

I knowledge of the material
feet man's existence as a mor-
1 The laws which regulate
ty have an impress of invari-
pon them — a want of power
le themselvesj at any rate.
! obedient to a will to which
)ear insentient. This is true

of inert, stolid matter, not
egetable life, but of annuals,
those wondrous developments
i; which approach so near to
bat they are scarcely distin-
j from it. The highest mere
are creatures of circumstance
istance ruled, indeed, by ap-
d instinct, but not by recog-

a higher law, not by any
ness of affinity to a higher
existence. Therefore, you
» them by an appeal to their
; you can rule them by pro-
•r their animal natures ; you
ne them if you bring to bear
I force stronger than their own.
ly, we may assume that man
ban a mere animaL He has
iffinities to higher natures
•ce cannot subdue, and which
;rior ^o animal temptations.
Cities may be starved out,

by not providing them with
Q fitting nutriment, which is
\x)d of the body. They may
ed or restrained in their de-
it by overloading the soul
raneous objects; but in pro-
is these powers are starved
ashed out, the man sinks, the
ses. And the animal man is,
you, a very ferocious kind of
d none the less so for having
ce developed; rather is he
ys in proportion.'*
would not, then, develop in-

he contrary, I think it the
md holiest task in which a
eing can be employed. I re-
all plans that tend to raise

I applaud your benevolence
Dg these establishments, al-

feel that you are preparing
df a disappointment."

"But why r

" Because you have begun on the
wrong principle. It is good that you
have begun at all to see the princi-
ple acknowledged that man is man,
and not a mere machine to win riches
for the few ; that principle emanated
from selfishness in the beginning, but
selfishness will not root out selfishness.
I admire your idea principally be-
cause it proves your own zeal, your
own earnestness, your own capability
of sacrificing yourself for others ; even
the disappointment impending will be
fraught with good if it do not dis-
courage you from seeking the true
principle, which I hope it will not do.
Faith in nmn is easily overset, be-
cause man can fall of himself, but of
himself he cannot rise."

" You believe, then, as I do, that a
new era is dawning on mankind, and
that the laborer must be protected and
enlightened P' said Hester.

" I do r* said M. de Villeneuve.

" Yet you do not believe that my
schools and arrangements will make
him happier ?^

*' Will you forgive me if I say I
do not ?^

'^You are an enigma; I cannot
make you out," said Hester.

"How did man fall into the de-
graded state in which the masses
are ?" said M. de Villeneuve. " We
have proof of intelligence enough in
the founders of Babylon, of Nineveh,
of Thebes, and of Egypt."

" Some men must have known some-
thing, I think," said Hester, " but they
seem to have kept their knowledge
very carefully to themselves, and made
slaves of those to whom they did not
impart it. Knowledge was very much
an affair of class or rank. The pop-
ulace was brutish, if accounts are true,
and kept in order by sheer force."

" And when that force pressed too
hardly, they fied and became the
founders of the savage life. Such is
the probable course. And what power,
think you, elevated the mass, even to
the extent in which we see them now ?
for, debased as they may be, they are

004

Thi Godjrty FitmU^ ; or, QwtHm^ ^f ikt Daf,

far above the races that did the same
work in ancient time.** ; nay. the la-
bort^rs of Europe are far above the
slnvea of Asia. What baa caused Ibe
difference ?**

" The march of intellect," said Hes-
ter proudly.

"Supposing that granted for the
Bake of the argument, what caujied
* the march of in t died ?* what gave
the itu[>L tua to raise the • toiler for
bread' in the scale of humanity f"

Ileftter eould not answer* The
Gomte continued:

"I believe it to be that very in-
fluence which * the ago' is seeking fto
earnestly to destroy. Man's selfiBh-
ness oppressed his fellows, overpow-
ered his faculties, laid them to sleep
80 effectually that the rieh and great
were acknowledq:ed by the crowd to
be of another order, of another scale
of being, to be judged of by another
standard, to be weighed hy another
measure* The gospel came: to the
poor it was picnic! icd par tJrrelhnce i
it was a call of the Futlier to hi* down-
trodden children* an appeal to their
hearts, their affections, a lovin<^ invi-
tation to them lo come, as cliildreu of
the most High God, to cJaim their in-
heritance of lofty faculty, of high in-
tuitions, of exalted aspiration. The
understanding enlightened through the
heart changed by slow degree's the
face of nations ; the slave disappeared
from the christianized lands ^ the leaven
worked from the interior to the ex-
terior, life became protected, the rich
and the poor, equal before God, be-
^ came equal befoit; the law also ; civil-
isation of heart produced civilization
of manners among the masses. The
greater involved the lesser. Men a
intellects were awakened, roused to
action, and then followed the old story
over again ; they forget how they had
obtained these gifts, and from whom,
and they are applying them to seltish
purposes, to animaJ gratification. But
liberty is the gift of the gosfieli lib-
erty emanating from emaneipation of
the understanding by means of the
BouL If we would preserve the

gift, we munt obterre
lirma."

**Do you n-allT think *
good T asked Hrstcr, J
*' True hberty is one of ■
of ble.^sing^.'* 5Aid llie cooild
will tind it ditlicuk lo ^fftm
erty' on earthly groonds utof
t*o esmiy degenerate iuli) li(9l
the repression of lioenie j
a i^edtraint to which mea ^
submit, and eaaily
so that, utdess license b
the spiritual sense, liberty
tiuual jcopanly ; it i^
lieve it can be I a* ting.**

'* And you think the »j
necessary to Uht^rty ?*'

^' I do ; how r be can la
restrained witliout fony?

"Surely inlelleetiuil eal
ought to sutficc. Coiamicm-I
tells us that som« rescmlsi
aary, that the moral kw 14
servefL"

'' It may tell ui» so» but i
the [jower to execute il^ bid
** It should do so,*" j

^' It >iliould, and would. If il
were in hannony. All lanj
meot'ihand J»pirituah teiM^i I
forms the same truth; the OM
manifestation of lh<9 uptrttml
the intcHcet dcmondtratea |]
and the necessity ; but poira
op the spiritual faculty doc« |
ettlier in the inteUect or ia^
belongs to a higher sourrt^M
out the will is power ksa. T|
it I prophesy disappcnntiiM
for I see no provi»ioii
selflshness, and promote a hi
** There is none needed,"*
Mr. GrtKlfrey somewhat abn
teach what we know. As

cism and mattere we

If they need religioo kl tki

not know, we Icav^

one, or make one for

The asperity with mliicl
said closed the coaTcmillo
time*

Hestar continued her nbi
less firm than before ia m t

The Qodfre^ Family; or, QtiesHont of the Day.

605

that tho spread of intelligonce would
annihilate evil. She watched the re-
salts with nn anxiety intent on dis-
covering the exact truth. She tried
more and more to enforce morality.
She studied the influencea by which
children are won to good behavior.
She thought love was the governing
principle of the little folks, and that her
indulgence would excite love. Rewards
were profusely given, and a system
of excitement acted upon. This pro-
duced certain effects in calling forth
intelligence, but the children became
selfish and fond of ease and dissipation
in a manner she had not looked for.

With her young people she had
scarcely better success. There was
DO religious restraint, and their morals
toon betokened that some restraint was
ciUed for. Then, again, Mr. Godfrey's
opioioos were pretty well known, and
Mnerant lecturers held forth on the un-
Kasonableness of the marriage tie, on
the necessity of easy divorce, and other
topics of like nature that placed Hes-
ter m great perplexity. It was not a
Bobject in which she as a woman could
properly interfere, and her father shrug-
ged his shoulders, and passed them by
with the remark, " These are not mat-
ten that can be interfered with, they
»w altogether conventional."

What could Hester do? She was
IB gieat perplexity.

CHAPTEB XX.
THE TRIALS OP LADY CO&'WAY.

Meantime we must return to Lady
C*iway. Time passed on and she
Iwaune the mother of a little girl, and
•fttt another interval of a little iioy also.
At this latter event Sir Philip s joy
^^ great The bells rang, bonfires
I'hzed, every festive demonstration
'tt called into play to welcome the
^ to the estate. AH the father's af-
Action seemed showered upon him.
Hk misandcrstandlng between himself
and hb lady bad nevor been thorough-

ly put to rights,*for Alfred still con-
tinued to keep awake in Sir Philip's
mind the suspicions he had aroused.
Had Annie be^n of a meek and jrentle
temper, she might very soon have con-
vinced her husband how far she was
as yet removed from religion of any
kind, although conscious of secret in-
fluences creeping over her. But Annie
thought herself aggrieved, and disdain-
ed conciliatory measures; and by de-
grees, under the insidious influence to
which he was exposed, Sir Philip be-
gan to assume a high tone of marital
authority which gave his wife continual
provocation and rendered her situation
almost unbearable. Daily he assumed
more and more the reins of domes-
tic government, until at last it could
scarcely be said that the ordinary juris-
diction which a woman exercises over
her household belonged to Annie.
She felt this keenly at first, but the
birth of her little girl came somewhat
to reconcile her. She spewt much
time in the nursery, and recreated her-
self with books. She tried not to no-
tice the arbitrary manner and haughty
bearing of her husband, for, high-spirit-
ed as she was, she thought it undigni-
fied to live in a perpetual jangle. So,
gradually, the married couple learned
to live in different ideal worlds, though
they continued under one roof and to
society appeared as usual. But this
did not suit Alfred Brookbank. His
hatred went deeper than this, and he
set himself seriously about attempting
to destroy what little was left of domes-
tic comfort. The birth of the young
heir soon furnished him with grounds.
None were more warm than he in of-
fering his congratulations, and in mak-
ing continual inquiries after the well-
being of this young scion of an ancient
race. Indeed, the interest he seemed
to take in all that affected Sir Philip's
• happiness was extreme. One would
have said that he lived but for the
pleasure of serving him. Sir Philip,
on the other hand, became daily more
wrapt up in this specious man, and
daily congratulated himself on having
secured so invaluable a servant

eoG

The Codfrey Famify; or^ Qtmiipm o/rtt

**Sir Philip," 8ai4 Alfred oue da^r,
after ineotitig tho lufant in lis nurse's
arms during a buHincss walk over the
gixjuxids, ♦♦rliat is a Fplcndid boy! I
need not fisk a man of your wisdom
il* yoa have made pro vb ion that he
should be biou^rlit up a staunch and
loyal upholder of the Protebiant inter-
est,''

'* Time enough yet, my worthy
friend," responded the bai^onct, •*ihe
diild is not six months old*"

"But before six raontlia more^ Sir
Philip, he will begin to receive impreii-
pion8, and early impressions are of
immense importance. You remember,
doubtless^ that when the ti-eaty of mar-
riage was on foot between the ilJ-fuled
Charles I. and Henrietta of France*
the question was mooted redpccting tlje
education of the children, and it was
iinolly settled that for the first seven
years they siiould remain under the
mothcr^s influence, and afterward be
brought up Protestant. The result
was tbU, in the long run, the early im-
pressions prevailed. Charles IL cer-
tainly received the Roraish sacrament
on hiti dejilh'bed^ and his brother James
sacriticed his crown to \ua papistry. I
imagine (hat first impressions are
almcHt indelible, and we never know
when first impressions it re made,"

»• But all my people are Protestanta,*'
said Sir Philip.

** And has Lady Conway renounced
her predilection for the papists ? ■
asked Alfred. Sir Philip's brow low-
ered.

** Forgive me if I go t»o far,** con-
tinued Alfred deprec^itingly* "The
inroads made hj these people who
caine to seek English hospitality on
being driven from I heir own homes, arc
too alarming. Awhile ago it would
have been an insult to suspect a well-
bi*ed person of such folly; but when
we see such talented young men as
Eugene Godfrey led away, it puis ua
on our guanl against future encroach-
monts, I for one should be sorry to
9m the heir appaivnt of Sir Philip
Oonwfiy an uptioliler of bigotry, or an
image worshipptT/'

*•! wo
thundered

is no fear; at k*ast t ^e
ate cause of apprcliensiofi
matter shall \h^ looke*! (»•
shall he watched oveTi
it,"

Sir Pltillp's mother waa

and with her a sister of

maid, who was a little too

puritanical school la euU h

taste. But now he

dies might fissist his

them A visit, and in

laid his dilhculty K

was not satisfied, li

way's opinions, iSJ •■• .i^^-^

lish Church occiuriuni

not cotisidep her a

heiirL He wanted hi* cli

imbued from the first Httli

estant ideas. Tlje little

two ycai's old, and thou^^

bo}' was but a few raonih

was no telling how soon

might be miide, so he in ten

a nurscr)* pfDvemescs of th«]

at once. Tins the lndi*»s

look out for, and when I

company th«* tn-n^ur*^ th

Xhii \ ' *s

W»ts i -r \

Lady Cvoway uvu

intellectual or higli ■■ -■_

that they came to

meat ol the nur^ry oi

and place a stranger tlj€

oflice was to watcli herself

lercourse witli her owit cliii

pri'st nee bec*aine uneodi

Bedtord, the new

hcMcif a quiet, unoli

faithful to her duties

manners ; but she had

account of her unmi

popery, iind it liad htm

to her that Lafly Conwar

little tainted with its deluMqil

made her mnrr* ron 5 trained

and less |^ 1 than

otherwise li

It was in \ Vim

that she Wii^ tjn ^ >\^

her own nuwcxT* that this

Ihe Oodfiey Fcamly; or^ QuestUms of the Dcuf.

607

iDj unnecessary as unwel-
ler. Sir Philip was immov-
! to prove how intent he was
\ his own way, he dismissed
S \!6ho had tended both chil-
5t skilfully, merely because
lot shown herself sufficiently
. to the new-comer. The
cried after their old friend,
ittle girl clung to her dress,
r not to leave her. It was
No one is more obstinate
)1 in power. That wife and
vere unhappy was nothing to
p now. His will was law,
!a rule of iron all must sub-
months after this they were
table when the letters were
3. Among them came one

Annie. Sir Philip opened
) now his custom to open his
ters), read it, and handed it
th the words :

me, I am very sorry, I sup-
must go immediately." The

1 from Hester. It stated that
frey (who had been for years
ealth) had latterly become
rse, that she waa constantly
r Annie, and the physicians
must be humored in every
; her reason, if not her life,

on it. Annie was therefore
to come without delay."
soon can I have the car-
quired Annie of her liege

on as you can get ready, of
nswered Sir Philip,
he children ?" faltered Annie.
Bedford will take care of
en, and I shall be at home ;
rself easy about them."
nnie would have liked to
children with her; they
terest her mother at times,
lat large mansion could not
way ; but her heart seemed
she dared not express her
ind she departed without re-
je.

ind her mother even more
than she anticipated* Mrs*

Grodfrey had ever been tenderly attach-
ed to her children. Their happiness
had been her fondest care, and a melan-
choly settled upon her as she found
her hopes disappointed. The haughty
Adelaide seemed quite changed from
the time when she was a joyous girl
at home. Annie, though still afiec-
tionate to herself, seemed pinmg away
under some secret unhappmess. But
the darling of her heart — her son,
whom she loved with the whole force
of h^r character, in whom were unit-
ed alike joy and pride — why was he
banished from her sight ? That Mrs.
Grodfrey was sorry for her son's Catho •
licity there was no doubt; certainly
she was mortified at this unexpected
result of her fine intellectual training ;
but the love she bore this her only
son far overpowered both sorrow and
vexation, and she bitterly felt his pro-
longed absence, and had often en-
deavored to shake Mr. Grodfre/s de-
termination in this resrard. Some lit-
tle passages had even occurred be-
tween herself and her husband on the
subject. ** She could not understand,"
she said, " why a person should be
pei-secuted for his religion. When
Mr. Grodfrey told his children to think
for themselves, did he mean that they
were to think as he did, on pam of ex-
pulsion ? Was not Eugene good, duti-
ful, noble, and generous ? Why was
he treated like a criminal ? Had he
been a roue^ like so many young men
of his standing, it would have been
called ' sowing his wild oats,' and every
allowance would have been made for
him. Why could they not treat this
vagary as intellectual wild oats, and
give him time to recover ?" Mr. Grod-
frey tried to pacify her, but in vain ;
illness succeeded. ^ She must see her
son," she said.

]VIr. Grodfrey was a little too reso-
lute. He did not even give her tid-
ings of him when he summoned him
to the lawyers. It was by sheer ac-
cident that she discovered they had
met ; and when she discovered the re-
sult of that meeting her indignation
was terrible. She could not bear to

608

TX« Godfrey Famify; or, QuuHmi ^fAi Dag.

have Hester in her siglit. She wauW
ool aeoompaiiy lier and Mr. Godfrey
to Yorkshire* She stayed at home
alone whole monthj!. Years passe*!;
Eut^ene went ubrixul. and in tlie dis-
turbed state of the continent hh let-
ters raisearnec^l. It wa& long since
she heard from bim. A paroxysm
ensued. Her mind heemne nffected.
Mr. Godfivy was sent for* A gentle-
man experienced in diseases of the
brain waa invited to reside in the
house. But in vain. The malady
inereasedj and her calls for Eugene
and for Annie became so frequent
and so terrific that all hope of keep-
ing the matter a secret seemed at an
end, and the doctor insisted that the
persons she called for should be sent
for* Annie came forthwith ad wc
have seen^ but Eugene's address was
not known*

On entering the room where her
mother ^al in company with two
strange nurses, Annie was struck
with the wildness of her manner:
her hair was disordered and hung
loose over her shoulders; it wa^
far whiter than when Annie had
seen it last, and her eye5 were rest-
lessly looking round the room. She
sprang up at her daughter's entrance^
tbtvw herself on her neck, and burst
into tears, **0 Annie, Annie I are
you come at la^t? I have a stninge
Illness upon nie ; I do not know fiow
to bear myself; but yon will not let
thera hurt me, you will take caro of
me.**

Annie was not prepared for this
gn^eiing. She could only clasp her
mother's hands, caress her, make her
sit down, and try to keep down the
swelling in her own throat. Sudden-
ly Mrs. Godfrey broke from her, and
standing up laid her hand on Aimie*s
ehoulder, graying : ** Wliere h Eugene?"
** I do not know, my dear motlier.**
" Not know ! Aj*e you all leagued
against me ? ^yhat share in his inher-
itance had you ?"

Annie looked as she felt, surpriseA
She had heard of the transaction only
when it was over, but she answered

soothingly, not wtshing to hmi be*

ward exciting ideas* iBut Mw. (^

firey wa* not to be soothf4 ; all oifll I

she raved of Eag<?ne; whm llialif I

approaehrd, she spninji firmi the Wl

and attempted ^ " ' ; Mr. tjoJ"!

iVey dared nor lithin kr|

heari ng. '* '1 h i <^ r ^ i rn \ r o r, k iia tr,

Ciil, villnin,** and other opprt)t(fiattl

epithets were bestowed on him urwliutj

fondling. The f!of*fnr w?v» r^^! tn '

shaken in hi^

hope lay in til

ing him to Irt bea

They had no clu*

knew he wm gone abroad

probably not return for ti»

the hope that some one

succe^ful, they at ti.».-

Mr. Godfrey's intei:

inserted in the I^ninju un

pers a notice to tlie eflwi

are sorry to annoim

diingerons illness

Godfrey, of E<»teourt .

this meet the er** of I

now on his tr'

him to return ^
Tliifi aelvertisrii

poinfeii out to M, I

after it apjHjared at '

hastened Ui fonvar

Eugene, who, tnivt

were not days of r;t.., iij

Estcoui-t inUI wtUiin tl

ter Annie had trd^en up

there. The old butler

the ring at tlie gate ho^

but speechless welcoiii<N ai>d wiik •]

fi Tnre condnctMl him»iil

t i:il rntTmiiC9*lial,liitl|

a ^idc du< 'nt^ till ho «■* i]

Annie^s :j , wUicli

cated with tlie sick-ehamber* W^\

he rapped^ and on Annie*! apfie

left ttie two togcthej^ wilhoal a i

Eugene entered and «al
** WWt is the luatttft t" he mi.
Annie answered not: her li*^4i '
tiv he of one too wr-

Eugene repeaie;i '-^

then she softly w!ji
gene* she hnji gone o»i* ..• „ . ^ — ^,
Eugene coram hie &«§ will H ]

Ti$ CMfrtg Familg; or, QutHionM iff Ik Doy.

609

It was a long time ere either '
ak again. At length Annie
tiptoe and opened the door
Ating with the invalid's apart-
BLis mother was lying quietlj
ofa, muttering at intervals,
pproached and listened. He
e caught the sound of his own
le went nearer and knelt be-
The sick woman knew it
ler arm laid itself restlessly
I neck, and as his hot tears
r cheek she kept repeating in
the words, ^' Eugene, my dear
' Singularly enough, when
1 she evinced no surprise at
im there. It was as though
it intuitively, or had expect-
Perhaps it was the prolonga-
;r dream. She did not greet
stranger, or speak as if long
id passed since she saw him,
m him as to his occupation or
ftbode. She waked, but was
dreaming of him. She found
i, where she had so long wish-
be, quietly asked him to hand
38 of water, took it from him
ly, returned the glass, kissed
t bent over her, and sank into
anquil sleep, from which she
anquilly and apparently re-
mt still taking Eugene's ap-
as a matter of course which
no expression of surprise,
bysidan now insisted on this
ontentment being lefl undis-
He had long wished Mr.
ind Hester out of the house
nt of the excitement they
in his patient ; he now insist-
ley should not be seen, heard,
in the sick-room ; ^ in fact," he
em, ** if it were convenient, it
better you should retire from
1 until Mrs. Godfrey can her-
^ved. A paroxysm now might
Spare her that, and I hope
ecover. This illness appears
been occasioned by mental
ind evidently her son only has
r to soothe her." Hester was
lOred; Mr. Godfrey was an-
Bhidhis vezatimi. ^ He would

TOL. IT «»

wait a day or two," he said; ^ if Mra^
Godfrey continued to improve, he would
take Hester to Yorkshire, where their
presence was greatly needed."

He was, however, so much irritated
that he would not see Eugene, in spite
of his entreaties conveyed by Annie*
Meab were served up to him and
Hester in a separate room, and he
now appeared only anxious to get
away. Hester was, however, almost
heart-broken. She had not been al-
lowed to speak to Eugene; but the
night before their departure, after Mr.
Godfrey had retired for the night, she
sent a note to him containing these
words only :

^ Come to my room, I am very un-
happy. Let me see you ere I go.
** Your own sister,

" Hbsteb."

'< I thought you would not deny me,
Eugene," she said, as the latter enter-
ed her apartment ; " you were ever
kind and forgiving. TeU me, first, have
you any hopes of mother ?"

^ Indeed I have, dear sister, the
greatest hopes."

" Do you call me * dear sister* ? Yoa
are not angry with me, then, Eugene P*

^ Not much more angry than I was
the day you took my horse away when.
I wanted to go hunting ; do you re-
member it, Hester P'

^* I do, but you would not speak to^
me then till mother reconciled us..
Dear mother! our childish quarrels
always worried her. She was. never
easy till she had set thenv right*.
Would we were children again, Eu-
^ne, and our quarrels as easily ad-
justed." Hester was weepings as she
spoke.

^ We may be, Hester, ae sooo as,
we' so will it Why should we lose
the simplicity, love, and truth that
make childhood sweet 2"
. " Do you love me still, Eugene ?"

^ I do ; nay, I admire you too, though.
I think you are mistaken."

"You are very good to.say so. Now
ihen, dear Eugene, I may tell you to
set our dear mother's mind at rest as
8ooa at she can undeatimd. reason.

610

The CMjh^ Famify,' or, QMeHioHS of At Dag.

Toa will tell her that, at least as for as
I am conoemed, there shall be no in*
justice committed eventually. My
father gives me the control of his prop-
erty now, which he has a right to do
if he so pleases ; you have your allow-
ance such as he promised you, that is
all right too ; but tell my dear mother
that) as far as it depends on me, mat-
ters shall be made right at myfkther's
death. It would serve nothing, as you
know, to moot the matter now, but I
will never rob you or any one. Tell
my mother this, Eugene, and tell her
to restore to mo her love.**

** I will, my darling Hester. Now
make yourself easy. Be sure my
mother loves you still, that I love you,
that we all love you. Be easy, my
sister, my sweet sister.** But Hester
was weeping bitterly ; the thought of
not being allowed to see her mother,
to help nurse her, was almost more
than she could bear, and she very
sorrowfully acquiesced in the arrange-
ment.

CHAPTER XXI.

PROGRESS AGAIN.

The estates in Yorkshire were in-
deed in need of the master's eye.
One of the clerks had absconded with
a considerable sum of money; and
this touched Mr. Godfrey nearly:
while Hester was more afiected by
the discovery that the insidious doc-
trines of *free love* were making ter^
rible inroads on the morality of the
young people. She was the more affect-
ed as she felt a natural repugnance to
approach the subject. She found the
people legislating for themselii^s, and
systematizing divorce in what they
deemed a manner consonant to nature.
She was not prepared for this develop-
ment, and drew back in disgust. *• Is
there, then, no remedy for this ?" she
asked of her father. ^ None but to le-
galize it, I believe," he replied. *• You
know nothing of these thingSy child, and

had better not meddle with thei
izing divorce most t^e place i
later, from canscs yoa do m
stand ; nay, I do not tliink tl
will stop there. As pec^le be
lightened, and live more accord
laws of nature, polygamy mn
galized too ;* it is tlK only wi
vent disorder. In fact, but
prejudice created by religion,
have been done long since i
as it has ever been done in pi

** Are yoa serious ? *

« Perfectly so T*

'^Then there must be 8(
wrong, absolutely wrong. I c
be brought to believe polygon
sary ; that must enslave a woi
I must protest against it"

** Protest as you will, yoa
nature too strong for yoor
You have been so peculiarly
up, Hester, by your poor mot
you know nothing, absolutely
of the world's necessities, and
to wish I had never let your <
come unseale<L You are a pi
one, and belonging to a pi
class ; the majority of the wc
not so protected. But tliis i
subject for you ; shut your eyes
matters, and attend to the* sp
intelligence."

But it is not easy to shut on
when once they have been opem
ter was stupefied. This came as i
to the sorrow already arising i
mother's illness, from her rrni
having partly occasioned it.
woman's heart within her n
ginning to make itself felt, 'i
cupations of tlie Yorkshire esta
trite and dull, until she had i
remedy for this grievance, a p
to pro{>ose, a power with whidi
Mr. Godfrey was also gloom;
his pecuniary loss through the
zlemcnt of thb clerk, and

^ Thii plea is nov oted bj Intdllfcml
Mormnnlt««, Uf justify the exbtenoe oC itfti
gvnj In an Ameriom Slate. It Is |Ef»fffl
that only in Morinondoni can tfne in'>nl h
forced ; that the pracUee Iq ntber States fe
without the s vactlon of the lav, and thaft II
of that aanetlon creates the diMHerv t
brsirli of ov etreeCfc OHUr nifw to Uli

Tke Godfrey Family; or, QuetHtrnt if Ad ifay.

611

ig* a yery unpleasant ap-

neuve called to pay them

t, the illness of his father

America.

; return to Europe ?" said

30on as I can get away, I

take care of my ward ;
lossibly find a location for
ke her to America with

•d ? Her order T
lot know that Euphrasie
my ward, that her father
er to my care the night

1 ? That which has kept
so long has been the hope
ler to regain her estates
sh herself. Fortunately
jf mind, I have been able
icceed in both. A part,
small part, of the estate
scued; and Madame de
eady returned to France,
links herself still more
our of the ladies of the
e she was educated have
in England. They have
the aid of friends have
) establish themselves.

;en a house at , about

n this, and have already
immunity life, to Euphra-
itentraent.'*

irasie did not return with
France?"

e resigned her right to
ing madame's life,"
t will she live on ?*
Dlarcs support themselves

oked surprised, almost
de Villeneuve continu-

ny absence I have de-
friends to look after
18 I said, my object is
isplant them to America.
ot forget to inquire after
, of whose health I hear
3unt8. I do not wonder
m are dejected, every one
lize in your anxiety. But

tell me, how was it that Mrs. Qodfirey^
80 lofty-minded, so motherly a woman,
80 full of magnetism, if J may be
allowed the expression, oonld bring
herself to patronize this materialistie
scheme of education? Her loving
heart must have felt intuitively that
systems, exterior expressions which
lack the vital principle, cannot regen-
erate the earth."

^ I do not know that my mother ever
did patronize my plans. She l^as never
been well enough to come to York-
shire since they were started."

" No ! (Then you missed the benefit
of her fine intuitive reasonings, and
of the results of her experience. B^
lieve me. Miss Hester, applauding as
I do, perforce, the zeal which animates
you, I am constrained to tell you, yon
must necessarily faiL You appeal bat
to the selfish passions; you will be
startled one day*at the demoralization
that will be manifested."

'*! am beginning to feel this al-
ready," said Hester. ^I want some
power that as yet I do not find."

Mr. Godfrey rose impatiently and
went to the window, scarcely out of
earshot, but far enough away to de-
cline any share in the conversation.
He was always displeased when his
" best policy" principle was called in
question, though just now his pocket
was suffering from that cause.

<' You will find out soon the sanc-
tion you require," said M. de Ville-
neuve. " Every real unperverted nat-
ural law is the material symbol of a
higher supernatural law, to which it
is essentially related. It is the dis-
union of these two laws in yonr mind
that now perplexes you ; but yon are
too sincere in your search for troth
not to perceive their relatire bearings
at last."

<«Truth! what te troth ?^ said Hes-
ter.

« Truth is the*harmany of all things
as they exist in QoA ; as love is their
manifestation," said M. de YilleneuTe.
*<The simplicity of ideas, their order,
beauty, harmony, find expression in the
created world ; tat the ideas themselTes

612

Tk9 Godfrey FamO^; w^ Qtiuiimu of ik$ Ihg.

are immaterial or spiritual, and have a
relative spiritual expression in the souL
Tou have taken one and left the other,
hence the fiolure. Missing the idea
itself, you necessarily fail in power,
for spiritual power is needed to de-
velop truly even the material type.
And, moreover, you cannot understand
the type until you possess the idea."

<* Something is wanted, that is cer-
tain," said Hester; " but if all virtue
is typified in some material existence,
tell me where is the type of purity ?^

" Where but in the virgin-moAer,"
responded the comto. ^ In tjie mother
of him who died to obtain for man
that power over sin which had es-
caped him. The world lies the vic-
tim of its own self-will : it needs a high
ideal of purity and of sanctifying love,
and this it finds in Mary ; it needs the
power to work out this ideal, and this
it finds in Jesus. The progression of
man is dearer to Mary than ever it
can be to you, for she is our mother,
and tlie mother of our Redeemer ; but
progression consists in sanctifying the
individual, in destroying that over-
weening empire of sense which over-
lies the spiritual faculty, and which
is fatal to woman in every sense, even
in tliis world. Did you never ob-
serve how the progression of ancient
rimes ever riveted woman's chains?
From Egypt to Greece, from Greece
to Rome, as luxury increased the deg-
radation of the majority of women fol-
lowed. The temples of the gods were
tilled with tliousands of women enact-
ing scenes of horror under the name
of worship. This affords a key to the
disorders that always accompanied
ancient civilization, for woman is the
mother of the race, the peculiar im-
fiersonation of tlie affections, and in
her maternity tlie representative of
that self-sacrificing principle which for-
gets self in care for the welfare of her
children. Where woman is not cog-
nizant of her true office, where her
spiritual affinities remain undeveloped,
the race can get no further than ma-
terialism, and that sensuous gratifica-
ti0D which ooQtains alreadj within it*

self the germ of decay, for ii
earth, eairthy. Bui the divi
stinct of religioD, when fwoc
the * grace to rise' won for us
cj!OBS on which the God-man dk
ed Mary on the altan of his
for the special protection of all
holy and aspirative in womj
And since that blessed time CI
women have been respected as
and as mothers ; as beings for
foster virtue and watch over tl
itual education of the meml
Chrisf s body. Mary acts woe
ly through her daughters. Ct
queens converted their husban*
with them their subjects thro
Europe ; Christian matrons ha
en that tone to society which noi
in tills age of heresy, inspects
in theory, though it throws ii
practice. All that is pure, all
lovely, all that is harmonioa
holy invests the shrine of Mai
from her influence proceeds the
that represses vice, converts the
to goodness as its chief happine
gives power to tlie individual
those works of penance, of violc
self, which win the kingdom of b*
a kingdom which commences h
our own hearts, when we once
into the harmonies of Ihe re
teachings of nature and of revel
Hester started to her feet. *^
the office of Mary ? ' she exdaii
M. dc Yilleneuve assented by
ture.

*' True or not true," said I
'^ this explanation does not in tb
savor of ignorance and luperi
it is beautiful poetry !"

•* And is not poetry ihe I
truth ?' said the comte.

^* No," said Mr. Godfrey, oomii
ward with a frown on his ooonte
No! I wonder you religkMi
pie can never keep within your
er bounds. I, who have inrel
France, in Belgium, and in Ital
seen the painted dolls and g
dressed-up images, protest agaim
giving a poetic or phikM<^ihic di
this idoktry or mariobUry. W

The Oodfrey Famify; or, Questions of the Dag.

613

tile Hester abroad, she will see with
me that this worship is nothing but the
nnkest saperstition."

''Bat I thongfat you said there was
jhrajs a meaning under everj myth.
F^ may not this be the meanin? of

**Mai7 is no myth,'' said the Comte
deVilleneuve, " she is a real, holy, pure,
sod bving woman, to be loved with a
penooal affection !"

" Beware T said Mr. Godfrey, " our
ftmilj has suffered enough already
fion these fantastic dreams. Eugene's
Oithoiicity has driven his mother cra-
sj. If my Hester were to succumb, it
voqU be even worse with nie. Let us
Bike 8 truce with religion, I see it will
piodaoe no other fruits than to set peo-
ple l>y the cars."

^As you wilL I am leaving for
America, can I bear a greeting from
JW to my father r

*Tell him to inspire his son with a
lUeof hiscommoh sense. In a twenty
JMn^ intercourse he never mentioned
4i word religion in my family."

*Tou must forgive me, Mr. God-
fe^ * said the comte rising. ^ I thought
toeoDsole your daughter; she is much
cringed since I saw her last."

Belter was much changed, but never
nimch as now. She longed to thank
As eomte, to unsay her father^s rude
*Mb, but she dared not She dared
■ot inger Mr. Godfrey. Nor was it
*w«Mry : her eyes had kindled, her
^vntenanoe had glowed, and the comte
ttthat his words had not been thrown
p*fi thai Hester had received a reve-
vi(A, and be departed consoled.

It was a new study that Hester now
Jtod upon. Woman as she was in
«• olden time : in Greece and Rome ;
"bypt and Abyssinia ; in Persia and
Ma. Woman as she is everywhere
]^Qe ChriBtianity is not known, where
^ nodiership of Mary is ignored.
% bets presented to her were ap-
Mng; and none the less so that Mr.
wftw was so peevish when address-
ri on this sabject. He felt intuitively
ht the mare Hester knew of this, tlie
taB die would shrink from material-

ism; and if she abandoned him, if she
adopted Catholicity, he would have lost
his last hope. He began to tiro of
"perfectibility" and "progress," the
more^ that they seemed to detach his
only joy from his side.

Yet with an old man's obstinacy he
would not yield. Hester continued her
system, but now it was to watch more
closely its results, to penetrate the se-
cret workings of the heart. She wanted
to speak of higher motive than self, but
she knew not how. She only knew,
and daily she knew it more, that some
high controlling power was wanting
which could speak to the heart and reg-
ulate the inward spirit : " Was that
power God ?" " And Mary, was she a
real manifestation of the power of God
residing in a woman's frame ?"

Hester now wbhed this might be
true.

CHAPTER XXII,
THE CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.

After a few weeks spent in the
company of Eugene and Annie, Mrs-
Godfrey rallied somewhat, and the
physicians prescribed change of air.
Her insanity had somewhat subsided,
but she was now dull and stupid, ut*
teriy unlike her former self, and her
illness had affected her limbs also so
that she was obliged to be wheeled in
a chaise-longue from one place to an-
other.

The place chosen for their new
abode was a lone house within half a
mile of the sea-coast, the road to which
lay in a beautiful valley between two
hills of considerable elevation. On
the highest of these was a light-house,
which gave warning of the perilous
nature of the coast, while the neat lit-
tle white dwellings of the coast-guards-
men, at the foot of the hill, betokened
that this was a locality famed for
smuggling excursions. Mrs. Grodfrey
was often laid on a couch placed on
wheels, and drawn by band to the
beach on the sea-shore. The murmur

614

Th$ Godfrey Fcumfy; or, Qu$ttian$ ^ A9 Dag.

of the waves leemed to soothe her ;
and though she spoke very little, she
seemed by slow degrees to be recov-
ering her faculties, and now and then
listened to the subjects discussed bj
her children, Eugene and Annie, who
were seldom away from her, and who
took work or study to the seaside,
that they might while away the long
hours of attendance. After a little
time they observed that when the
weather was pleasant an old blind
woman was often led from one of the
cottages to a pleasant seat beneath the
cliff, and that the two or three children
who played near her seemed to regard
her with equal reverence and affec-
tion.

The old woman knitted in the sun-
shine, now and then interrupting her
work to tell her beads or relate short
stories to the young ones. In the
evening a tidy young woman, of most
pleasing appearance, would come to
lead the blind woman home. This
happened so often tliat the faces be-
came familiar, and Mrs. Grodfrey be-
gan to watch for them as for interest-
ing objects, and at length she also be-
gan to wish to form their acquaintance.
One afternoon she had her chaise-
longue wheeled up to the side of the
blind woman, and kindly inquired af-
ter her health.

^ I am well, madam. Thanks for
your inquiry," was the reply.

** And is this your daughter ?" asked
Annie, pointing to the young wom-
an who was just come to le:id her
home.

*^ She is my son's wife, thanks be to
God, and sure no daughter of my own
could be better to me, who am but a
burden to them all."

"Don't talk of burden, mother
dear," said the young woman. " Sure,
what should we do without you?
Don't you teach the children their
prayers and their catechism, and whh-
oat you shouldn't we be almost like
the heathens in this land of — ** She
paused and colored.

'^ Heresy," suggested Eugene, as if
condnding the sentence for her.

" No offence, sir, I hope,** ooa
the woman*

Eugene took ap the old w
beads which had fallen to the ]
reverently touched the cross 1
lips, and restored them to her.
offence at all,'' said he. *• Th
land of heresy and of infideli
it cheers us to find out now ai
one who continues faithful to tb
Where ilo you live ?"

^ In tlie white cottage yonde

" And your husband belong!
coast-guard ?"

« He does, sir?"

" And is he a Catholic also?

" Glory be to God, he is !" s
old woman.

*^But how do you manage!
you ever go to mass ?"

" Not often, sir."

" Is there any priest near lie

" None that I know of nean
Arundel Castle. The Duke (
folk has a private cliaplain, the
This was all that could be dravf
the parties on that subject,
evidently feared to compromis
one by speaking more plainly.

After this day Mrs. Godfrey
ed attracted to the |)oor blind ol
an. She had always been 1
lent, though she seldom took a
personal interest in the object
bounty, and beyond relieving p
want had little idea of doing
Now a new idea had taken pod
of her, she appeared to feci re^
for the cheerful sufferer, and
her with a proportionate rcspc
sympathy.

*'Is your husband long i
she asked.

" May God rest his soul ! ]
been dead these ton years."

^And how long have voc
blind?"

•* Nearly as long, praise be to (
took the fever immediately aft*
the disease fell into my eyes, an
I recovered I was blind."

" Do you praise God, my gooi
an, for making you blind?*

''And why not, mj kdy?

Th9 Oodfreg Fam»lt;or, QuetHom of Ab Dag.

615

knows befit what is good
what is most for his own

w can his honor and glory

d by your being blind?"

Godfrey, as a dim recol-

Euphrasie crossed her

iien, and its little we know
ters, and less that we can
e are sure that God created
ind wishes for our love and
id often when things go
8 we forget him, and love
id our friends so much that
3 serve him ; then he sends
icall us to himself, and for
lid bless him."

not God commanded ns to
ghbor V

' lady ; but it must be with
that we love our neighbor,

is the creature of Grod,
the same Father. Many
om a dislike to feel pain
I pain, but this is not the
p required by God, who
ist love him with all our
all our soul, with all our
This real love submits in
> his holy will, because it
into his keeping."
you could see you might
1, and learn to love him

could read, my lady," was

^here did you get your
" /iskcd Annie,
est taught me ray cate-
idy, and every Sunday and
explained it, and for many
I never missed the lesson.
3n had instructions at Mass,
it us the rosary and the way
;• Ah ! it is not the good
It if the children of his
1 do not know their re-

J never went to school ?"
I other than the school of
ch our Lord founded and
id the old woman. " Of-
) had scarcely potatoes

enough to eat, though we little ones
tried to work as well as the big ones ;
but labor was worth very little at that
time, and aflerward my father took
sick and lay for a long time helpless.
We had hard times of it in my young
days."

^ And did your mother take it very
much to heart ?"

** No, not very much. She grieved
when my father died, though she hoped
imd believed he was happy, and would
smile through her tears while she told
us so. But for the rest, we all knew
that it was not fine clothes or dainty
food that would make us happy : we
knew that we should have as much of
both as it was Grod's will to send oa»
and we tried not to wish for more.
When we were cold and hungry
mother would gather us round her,
and talk of that solemn midnight at
Bethlehem when, under the clear froa^
ty sky, the angels came to the shep*
herds, singing songs of glory, because
the Lord of heaven and earth lay
poor and helpless in the stable at
Bethlehem. Then she would tell us
of the long, dreary flight into Egypt,
when idary and Joseph begged hos-
pitality by the way, because they
loved poverty, for it made them more
immediately dependent upon God.*
Then she showed us the poverty of
Nazareth, and of the time of his min-
istry, who had not where to lay his
head ; and we became not only recon-
ciled to poverty, we tried to love it
for his sake, who became poor for oar
sakes. So you see, ray lady, we could
not be unhappy even when sorrow
was upon us."

<^ Twas a sublime philosophy,'^ said
Annie.

^ Rather say a glorious religion,
Annie I" said Eugene. ^ Well might
the boast of the gaspel be that it was
preached unto the poor."

Conversations like these brought a
new train of ideas to the minds of
both mother and daughter. Patience,
meekness, and humility were embodied
before them, bringing with them such
childlike confidence in the proridoiioe

61<

Ti$ Godfrey Famify; wr^ Qu$ttian$ cf flm JDag,

of Grod that they could bat feel such
religion to be indeed reality.

CHAPTEB XXIIL
OOlTTBOyERST ON IMPORTANT POINTS.

" Brother," said Annie, " I begin
to perceive that it is of necessity that
phUosophy divides itself into two
branches, the exoteric and esoteric
The human mind evidently needs con-
siderable preparation to be able to com-
prehend the higher ideas that lie hid-
den under first teachings. It is not
80 much the teachings that are
separate as that the mind must pass
through a given process to arrive at
the meaning. Every form of matter
seems a metaphor, involving a spirit-
ual idea, and many minds seem pow-
erless to penetrate to this ; they neces-
sarily remain content with the materi-
al explanation."

** And yet you blame religion for pre-
senting defined dogmas, practical me-
thods, and real precepts to her chil-
dren, forgetting that this is the neces-.
sary preparation to higher truth, and
that every mind must begin at the bo-
ginning ?"

^ I blame only trivial and childish
practices ; I reject only untenable doc-
trines,'*

** As for example T*

" The idea that a good God will
plunge us into hell I"

** Have you ever reflected on what
God is, Annie ?*

^'No! how should we know aught
of such a being?"

"Chiefly by revelation, but also
somewhat by observation."

" Give me your idea on the subject,
Eugene."

" God is light, power, and love. He
created intelligent beings, that he might
impart to them a degree of these
attributes, and in their degree call
upon them to participate in the joys
they impart The unvarying law im-
prmed on material agencies, whether

endowed with vitality or no
(in all reverence be it spokei
the love of GUkI ; the enforced <
of the material worid to the a
acting upon it, and the insti
mating the various races of vii
ter, though beautiful, though
evidence of power, wisdom, ai
olence, did not call forth a <
ness c^ creatureship, could d
to the creator a free-will ci
warm, outpourmg, grateful lo
the Creator desired. It is his
to desire to be loved ; and h
the human soul for the satL
this desire; he rendered it
endowed it with the faculty c
that it may freely offer the pc
to himself."

" Gro on ; how do you reoo
with hell?"

*' God is pure, holy, incapal
filement, change, or division,
sential being penetrates all spa
in contact, literally, with all
and spiritual existence. N
created the human soul like i
self, with affinities to himsel
proportion as that likeness con
is restored, light, love, and p<
ist in that souL The absence
constitutes disease, which will
spiritual death. They are i
the wicked, and the divine ra
ing that soul cause pain, ev<
rays of the sun cause pain w
enter the eye of the body aflt
become diseased.'*

** But etemaUy ?"

"The soul preserves its
and consciousness eternally, i
undergoes spiritual death. ]
act of volition it has lost Y\\
and power, it has not lost imn
and the divine rays, penetra
wreck of life, necessarily fill
terror and dismay when aO
for purity and holiness are d<
The spirit of love, enconnte
spirit of hate, must produce \
cord, rage ; and as the strife is
equal and hate is impotent, il
despair alsa We see this oo
soak OQ earth. The Frtocfa

Tke God/rt^ Famfy; or, QuesHans of Ae Day.

617

tkm brought prominentlj bc&re us
men whose spiritual faculties seemed
alreadj dead-— men given up to a rep-
robite sense, who appeared utterly be-
yood coorersion, and who were stvled
bj the Tulgar incarnate demons ; yet
tfaeie are immortal beings who will
euiy (heir dispositions beyond the
pare. Should you like hereatler to
eome in contact with such 'f

Annie shuddered. She thought of
Alfred Brookbank, whose mere on-
tiance into the room had often caused
her blood to curdle.

Eugene continued : " Bcmembcr, sis-
teTf that evil means cutting ourselves
off Tolantarily from God, and thereby
nbjecting ourselves to become the prcy
of our own passions, of our own sel-
fishness, which when once loosed may
lead .to every kind of excess. Good,
jn the contrary, is living in Grod, ador-
ing his will, admiring his perfections,
lovmg Ilia law. While on earth the
choice of good and evil is before us ;
ind what repugnances to perfect action
or to perfect dispositions wo find diffi-
cnit to overcome in this our fallen state
*3J be overcome for us if we pray in
• ■incerc, in a co-operative spirit, or ra-
Aer we shall receive power to overcome
^ evil and to accomplish all good if
•^y in simplicity of heart we turn to
bim who is faithful to fulfil all promises ;
^ be has said, * Ask and you simll
"Bceive* all graces necessary to form in
V^ the true spiritual life. If we choose
to neglect this means appointed by God,
^e have no right to complain of the re
■ok."

* I will pray," whispered Annie.
*I» too," said Mrs. Godfrey, who

I'** for tlie most part a silent listener
■ Ibese discussions. " Strange it is,
*"8ene, that you should be teaching
••principles which I ought to have
■■tiUed into you from youth up-
nid.-

* ^y, you were not a Catholic,
■^^herr* said Eugene.

"No ! but I had many opportunities
^ becoming instructed, had I been
*OGng ; but I was worldly ; I cared
'nr none of these things ; I did not

think the time would come when I
should consider sorrow and sickness a
blessing : without that fearful malady
and these paralyzed limbs I might
have died in ignorance of all that it
most concerns me to know. I havo
lived without God ; dare I hope, Eu-
gene, he will accept my tardy return
to him now P*

** The grace that is working in your
heart to make you wish that return is
an evidence of his love for yon, dear
mother ; only continue to respond to it,
and all will be welL"

" Brother," said Annie, on another
occasion, ^ the accounts that we have
of the ancients soon af^er the deluge
seem to denote that they were a race
of wondrous power. The mere history
we have of the building of the city of
Babylon, its wondrous walls, its bricks
so well cemented by bitumen that they
seemed imperishable ; its six hundred
and seventy-six squares, so planned
that they preserved the ventilation of
the city in perfect order ; its provision
for water; its hanging gardens and
palaces — ^to read of such cities as this
and Nineveh and many others, one
imagines a fairy talo in hand instead
of realities. Then, I presume, the
raiiiiing of those immense blocks of
stone which go to form the Pyramids
would puzzle our modem engineers, as
would many things in that land of
wonders, Egypt. Conceive a modem
traveller losing his way among the
ruins of ancient temples that strew
the site where Tliebes once stood, pass-
ing the night in the rude hut of a Bed-
ouin or Copt erected amid these ruins,
and in the morning seated upon a fall-
en pillar, making his meditation on
* Progression.' AH ancient, very an-
cient history, is instinct with power.
What does this mean ?"

" That probably the knowledge thai
Adam imparted to his descendants was
greater than that which we now pos-
sess, or the intellectual faculties may
have been stronger before passion and
egotism again corrupted the raco."

** You think the earlier men really

618

The Godfrey Family; or, Queslians of ike Deig,

possessed higher intellectual facultit»
than we have now ?"

" I think their works would warrant
the assumption. Beside, it is reasona-
ble to suppose that Adam was created
perfect according to his nature, that it
was endowed with the highest spiritual
and intellectual faculties, capable not
only of understanding the material
creation in its laws of attraction, in the
relationships of matter to matter, but
also of comprehending the type en-
folded in each materifd manifestation ;
the spiritual co-relationship existing
between such manifestation and the
idea it repn^sents. This spiritual fac-
ulty was overborne by sin, impurity
deluged the world, and a material del-
uge destroyed the race. But to Noah,
doubtless, the mental organization as
well as the spiritual pow^er descended ;
hence immediately after tlie deluge we
see mighty works whidi betoken tliat
high creative intellect which inspire
modem imitators with mute wonder.-'

*' Then you think sin was absolute-
ly a destroying power ?"

^ I do, even from the first. The in-
tellectual faculties, when used as the
mere servant of the selfish passions,
shrink and cannot receive their full ex-
pansion, cannot perceive spiritual rela-
tionships, cannot perceive man's moral
relationships, each one to his fellow.
Indulgence of the passions, uiprdinate-
ly pursued, of itself cripples the intel-
lect and takes away the desire of in-
tellectual culture ; selfishness, on the
other hand, shuts up the fountains
of knowledge, in order to retain the
material power that knowledge gives
for selfish purposes. Both these
causes were in operation to cause that
inequality of ibrtune which finally
wrought the ' castes' among mankind.
The knowing ones kept the knowledge
transmitted from Noali downwanl in
their own exclusive possession, which
the Quyority submitted to at first in
order more freely to indulge their
passions, and afterward because they
could not help themselves, having
(under the influence of passion) fallen
out of the intellectual sphere. Laws

compelling by force certain
became necessary, and bq
was performed by force also,
of the laborers became slave
laws, in their action* usuall
only the governed, that is, I
had let the intellectual powei
them. The governors had, a
versally, power to trample
common law when applied
selves ; it was only when the
contact with each other, am
on each other's privileges,
were called to account. I
of the theory, but of the pract
was one law for the rich, ai
the poor, througliout all ages
was called civilization, befor
ing of Christ, did not touch
the enslaved ; the down-trodi
had little chance of justice or
"Wlmt was meant by liben;
only to the freemen ; the wn
menibcring this leads many tc
in comparing the civilizatic
cient and modem times. T
preached to the poor taughl
repress the empire of the ptiss
slowly but sui>?ly causing th:
intellect in the masses which 1
slavery from Euro]M% and
countries where the liibon.»r h
ed even imp^-rfc^ctl}- tliis first
the doing which lias enabh
cultivate his intellect suffic
compete with those in poss<
power. A ))eople enslaved
sion easily succumb to exter
as a virtuous i>eople, howc
have an innate power of p
external freedom. The exi«
pends on the internaL One i
ifestation of the other ; a]m<
sequence."

"Thon/'said Annie, *' if I
derstood you aright, man wa
ally in direct communication
Crt»alor. Sin not only destr
communication, which was th
of all knowledge and iiappine
paired the faculties through w
communication is held."

" Yes," said Eugene.

^ And as temporal happini

Ti$ Godjrty Family ; cr^ Qitetiiant of the Day.

619

the reflex of spiritual happiness, the
aeeessarj result of order iu the spir-
itual relationship, it follows that the
ipiritual order must be rcatiMred be-
fire the natural oi'der can yield the
happiness it is calculated to produce.
Ibisy then, is tlie redemption, penance,
violence to flesh, and to self will, be-
fi)re the restoration can take place ;
the^e being the necessary medicine to
heal the soul's diseases. Those who
le&ase the medicme perish."

** You surprise me, sister,** said
Ea^C^ne ; ** you are apt at understand-

^ j^oa forget that long since the
eius*3aa was propounded to us. I am
but just getting my ideas into form.
You. irill tell me if I have drawn correct
ioferences. Man, by the fall, lost not
ooly^ actual knowledge and actual
meaiiB of knowledge, but he lost cm-
pre over the animal world, and, worse
ihaa all, over himself; he became a
slave to lus own appetites and pas-
rioQB, and to his own self-will. From
thii state nO efibrt of his own could
rescue him. The Redeemer came to
offisr him means of rescue, to enable
Um to re-establish spiritual communi-
ctdon, to bring man again into such
■etual relationship with Grod that he
•liall look up to him, practically as well
u theoretically, as the highest mcta-
^ysical teacher ; as the source of rcul
power and light to the understanding ;
^ >tttorer of all things to their pris-
tine harmony. Is this so?"
"It is."

"And naturally this restoration must
■%in by the healing of the disorders of
"^ Boul. The first impulses of grace
create desire for goodness, purity, and
^^i but the old man is still within,
J4 can only be subdued by violence
J^ to ourselves. * The kingdom of
l^ven suffereth violence, and the vi-
jj^t take it by force.' This is why
^ saints welcome mortification and
''^'kring, looking on them as tools with
^^ to subdue themselves, with which
™V may be enabled to offer them-
Jjl^ a living sacrifice to Grod. Tliis
h why what men call * progress' is re-

pugnant to sanctity — progress mean-
ing increased facilities for indulging
the passions ; facilities which, as wo
advance in sanctity, we loam to dis-
pense With more and more. This is
what Euphrasie meant when she puz-
zled us at her first coming."

" Indeed, sister, I believe it is."

*^ And her non-apprcciiitiou of hu-
man learning must have arisen from
the intense pleasure she felt in per^
sonal, absolute dependence upon God*
She did not want to know the mate-
rial intermediate sequences; of all
things, she preferred feeling they came
to her directly from herFadier's hand."

*' I presume this was the case."

"Then, too, if I understood her
aright, the soul^ purified by prayer,
mortification, and good works, becomes
by the grace of God detached from
the things of this world ; it seeks its
rest only in God, and then it begins
to regain some of the sublime spirit-
ual privileges it had lost. Even on
earth it may hold communication with
the glorified spirits in heaven, while
these glorified spirits themselves, bless-
ed with the beatiBc vision, drink in sen-
sations of beauty, harmony, and de-
light, such as exist only in God, and
of which we cannot form the slightest
conception."

Eugene could only press his sister's
hand in silence. She continued :

" It is this union of spiritual natures
with our struggling existence, this in-
terest taken by the saints in glory in
the members of the church militant
on earth, that you term the ' commun-
ion of saints,' is it not, Eugene ?"

« Yes, Annie."

^ And men have dared to call the
recognition of this divine union, of this
sacred bond of love, idolatry ! It is
the true conquest over death! the
earnest of our own loving immortali-
ty ! How absurd to call so beautiful
a demonstration of the effect of divine
charity * idolatry* ! "

"Ai absurd," said Eugene, "as to
believe that Grod, in providing means
to redeem men from the death of sin,
should not watch over those mean8|

Parthn.

and preserve them intact from man's
defilement"

"Yes," interposed Mrs. Godfrey,
** it is wonderful that men who believe
in revelation should not see, primd
facie, that the same miraculous inter-
position which produced the revela-
tion would, as if of necessicj, watch
over and protect that revelation/'
Then suddenly becoming very earnest,
she said : " Eugene, I am drawing near
my end, I feel it every day more. You
must bring me a priest, if, indeed, one
80 worthless as I can become a mem-
ber of the church of Christ. O my
God ! it scarcely seems possible that
a life of worldliness should be followed
by an eternity of bliss ! But I will
hope against my feelings of justice !
llie blood of Jesus is powerful to save.
O my God ! accept it ; it was shed
for me in pity and in mercy."

" And for me, too," said Annie. " I
must be a Catholic also."

** But have you considered the cost,
Annie? Your husband I your chil-
dren!"

''I have weighed everything, and
am resolved."

^1 thank thee, O raj i
the sick woman. "O e
tice ! I offer thee my chOd
my children's courage, in \
the precious blood of thy S(
for my own shortcomings,
these my children — give t
to persevere !"

There was a solemn pav
she added : ^ Annie, there :
in store for you, but yon '
it. Eugene will be to yon
protector, a guide. I mad
before this malady came o
not change it now, lest it
disputed. I lefl to Eugene
have to leave, but he will |
you, if provision is needed ;
Annie, will confide in him
need a friend."

" I will, dear mother," fin
nie. " Surely, we have alt
each other.'*

Eugene threw his arm
sister's waist, and kneelii
mother's side, solemnly pie
self to watch over his siste
for her.

TO V* OOKTIXVBO.

PARDON.

* M&nj itlni are forgiven her, becaose she bath loTed maeh.**

LoYE may, then, hope to quite refund
What sin hath ta'en away ?

Poor heart 1 thou hast a debt beyond
Thy straitened means to pay.

My sins in number far excel

The sands beside the sea.
Lord ! if thou wilt, I pay thee well.

Then lend thy heart to me.

Sta-Sid$ Ihwtn.

From Cluunl>en*t JoamaL

SEA-SIDE FLOWERS.

the sea-shore love- to
le beach in search of
lells of scallop or cow-
3tiriiig tide, and delight
exqaisite design and
scrambling over the
rered with treacherous
ito the little pools, frlng-

and purple weed, in-
rions anemones, gray
.rting fish, in hopes of
e new treasure to cap-
off in triumph for the
DQe ; but how few care

modest beauty of the
Sowers blooming unre-
' very feet ; nay, their
•flen unknown, or look-
imon weeds, devoid of
terest Many a lover
,nd country beauty will
ds and lanes, and even
t skirt the shore — es-
' be on the southern
and — where the brier
edges are tangled with
suckle, and the prim-
1 masses ; where the
peeps from amidst the
e speedwell opens its
3f loveliest azure ; but
ch the sea-beach, the
terility,

le sand on the sea-shore,**

;ht is expected or look-
rich harvest of ocean's
) cast on the shingle, or
beyond. The imme-
i links of the sea-side
ieless, and, to non-ob-
eary wastes ; but not a
de world is without its
.uty, and delightful it is,
along the sandy beach.

listening to the music of the waves on
the pebbly shore, to find how many
lovely blossoms are scattered even here,
ornamenting the rugged sides of the
chalky cliff or rock, weaving a flowery
tapestry over the sloping links, and
binding together with interlaced roots
the loose sabstance of many a sand*
bank.

Unlike the country meadows, where
the loveliest blossoms appear with the
earliest sunshine of the year, the fair-
est sea-side flowers are to be gathered
during the summer and autumn months ;
though even in spring, the turf which
enamels the links, down often to the
water's edge, will be found decked with
an occasional early blossom,

** As ir the ralnboffs of the first fresh spring
Uad blossomed where thej felL"

While, at all seasons of the year, here
as elsewhere,

" Daisies with their pinky lashes**

raise their glad faces to the sun :

" On waste and woodland, rock and plain.
Its bumble buds unheeded rise ;
Tlie rose has but a summer reign—
The daisy never dies.**

The flrst gleam of spring sunshine is,
however, reflected not only by the sil-
ver daisy, but by that " sunflower of
the spring," the golden dandelion, which
glitters as early as April on Uie sandy*
grassy slope, familiar to all, and com-
mon everywhere. The leaves of the
dandelion grow from the root ; they are
deeply cut and notched, and from this
have gained their name, which we Eng-
lish have corrupted from the French
dent-de-lton. The Scotch call the dan-
delion the hawkweed gowan. The
leaves are much eaten on the continent
for salad, and a medicine is extracted
from the root. Every one is familiar

Sia-Side Fbwen,

I
i

with the downy ball that succeeds the
flower:

** The cUndelion with globe of down,
The Bchool-boy*8 clock in every town.
Which the truant puff's aniAin,
To conjure loet hours back again."

When LinnflBus proposed the use of
what he termed a doral clock, which
was to consist of plants which opened
and closed their blossoms at particular
boors of the daj, the dandelion was one
of the flowers selected, because its pet-
als open at six; the hawkweed wan
another — it opens at seven ; the suc-
oory at eight, the celandine and mari-
gold at nine, and so on, the closing of
Uie blossoms marking the correspond-
mg hours in the aflcmoon. Nor is this
the effect of light on the plants, be-
cause, when placed in a dark room, the
flowers are found to open and close
their petals at the same times.

In the month of May many sea-side
blossoms appear; but in June they
burst forth in such wild profusion that
we are at a loss to know which to
gather first :

•• For who would sing the flowen of Jane,
Though fhim gray morn to blaxlng noon.
From blaiing noon to de^y ere.
The cliaplet of his »ong he weave,
Would find hii summer daylight fttll.
And leare half told the pleasing tale."

We must only attempt to pluck Ruch ns
are most common, and most likely to
attract attention.

Many a sea-side cliff is adorned with
the handsome palc-ycllow clusters of
the sea-cabbage, which flowers from
May until the late autumnal months,
and is Tcry ornamental, liangin*^ in
tofts from the crevices of the chalky
heights. It grows from one to two
feet high, has woody stems, and leaves
a deep green, tinged with purple and

SUow. It is very common on tlie
>ver cliffs, where it is gathered, and
bM to be boiled and eaten. From it
apring our numerous varieties of cab-
bage ; and this reminds me how very
greatly we are indebted to our sea-side
plants for many of our most valuable
V<egetable8 : the fresh crisp celery, the
dftinty asparagus, the beet, and sea-
kale, in addition to the cabbage, are all

derived from our salt-mani
under careful cultivation, hav
what they are.

The rest-harrow, which we
the cornfield, may also be fou
ing many a green patch on t1
cliff-side or sandy bank neo
Its woody thorns are more
and stronger tlian when flon
richer soil. Its leaves are
and small, its botterfly-shapec
usually a purple-rose color,
times almost white. Near thi
I have oflen ibund the little
wort, which requires close ol
to detect it It grows upright
delicate leaves, and flower-ci
with a reddish-purple color.

Very common in the sand
rocket, a smooth, glaucous p
pretty lilac-pink flower*, wl
mixes its blossoms with the
als of the scurvy-grass.

But June flowers press
here we have plentiful at £
many other sea-side places t
bugloss, certainly one of the
est wild-flowers, eitlicr of the
field or beach that we have
magnificent phint, sometimes
the height of three feet, its r
blossoms, with their long
stamens, oflen extending hsdf
the stems. It is peculiar for t!
of tints it exhibits in its fl
buds being a rosy red, but th
ed blossom a rich purple, w
ually assumes a deep blue, t
it is found white. Tbe stems ]
are covered with bristles and
warts, or tubercles. Its nan
from tlie resemblance the sei
a viper's head, and its spott
the snake^s skin ; and in ol
the phint was supposed to he
of a viper. It flourishes 1
chalky bill or sandy waste g

" Here the blue buglois paints Ui« tt4

and rears its rich spike of •
flowers with a stately air. '.
foliage is coarse, its blossoi
beautiful ; not easy, however,
for bees are ever hovering a

Sea-Siie Ffouen.

688

^vflK lollcnoiis ironi flotivr to flomif
Tkftliic eaoh iweefc that dwelU
Wtthln lU Mented bells ;'*

And oft tearing their delicate winga
among the thick, hairy prickles. The
oomDion kidney-vetch flourishes lux-
nriantly by the sea-shore, decking the
heights with its handsome yellow flow-
en rrom May to September. It crowds
its l>loBSoms into flower-cups, thickly
eorered with down ; and two such tufts
or beads usually grow at the top of
cacli stem. It is as common a flower
€0 tlie continent as with us, though it
Taries in color— owing, Linnaeus tells
nSy to the nature of the soil. The
French call it barhe de Jupiter , Jupi-
tw^B beard. We also give it the names
of lad/s-fingers and lambtoe. Claro
teDs us:

" ?*** jeUow Uunbtoe I hare often jfot,
BwwtereepiDg o'er the banks in sunny time.**

Daring June, the common pellitory of
the wall spreads over many a rocky

r» sometimes trailing its stems over
Barface, and at others rising erect,
* foot high. Its leaves grow up the
^Ty stalk, and are mixed with the
■■"•il purple-red flowers that lie close-
Y^l^iinst the stem. The white ox-eye,
™Ugh loving best to bow in beauty
™^t the waving grass of the meadow,
**y yet be found straying near the
®*«t; and very beautiful are its large
™Uwy flower-heads, with their ridi
W^^^ia centre and pure white ray.
. Several thistles are to be found flour-
*"*Og by the sea-coast, blooming from
V^^ to September. Perhaps the most
**^liar 18 the common sow-thistle,
P^'^^ing on almost every waste place,
•"^ greatly relished by rabbita, on ac-
?J**it of the milky juices it contains.
7* jeaves are deeply notched, the lobes
5r*^^ backward, its flowers yellow.
jP^^ milk-thistle is easily recognized by
?*^rge leaves veined with white, and
*^I^ purple flowers. It is a prickly
J^^t, oilen growing as high as four or
^^ feet. Though common in £ng-
■•*^^ it is rare in Scotland, and, I have
^^^ fa only to be fonnd on the rocky
*"8fc near Dumbarton Castle, where
^'^ticm telb it was planted by Mary,

Queen of Scots. The star-thistle may
occasionally be found among the wild
blossoms of the sea-side, jrrowing on
cliff-tops, or green patches of the b^ch.
It has hard woody spines, standing out
from the flower-cup only, and in this
differs from the other thistles; which
are usually covered with sharp bristles^
and seem defiantly to announce :

•• I am sir Thistle, the surly,
Tbe rough and the rude and the borlj ;
I doubt If youMI And
My touch quite to your mind,
Whether late be your visit or early.**

July comes laden with a host of fair
blossoms of her own, as numerous as
those of June :

'* Brli^ht Fccms of earth, In which perchance we see
What Eden was, what Paradise may be."

Perhaps one of the most attractive, 2^
well as one of the first in beauty, and
blooming down almost to the water'i*
edge, is the yellow-horned poppy, scat-
tering its crumpled golden blossoms
with every passing breeze on the sur-
rounding sea-weed. Its stems and
leaves are a delicate blue-green, wear-
ing the bloom that is called glaucous,
from which its botanical name is taken.
It is hairy, and its peculiar, curved,
hornlike pods are often half a foot long.
It is a showy, handsome plant, but
smells badly, and is said to be poison-
ous. Quite as pretty, and far less harm-
ful, is the sea-convolvulus, trailing its
rose-colored bells with yellow rays,
and dark-green succulent leaves, in
clusters on the sandy links, where it
presents a succession of delicate, short-
lived flowers ; and equally common but
less showy, are the green blossoms
and thick wavy leaves of the sea-beet
{^Bcta marittma)y which, when cultivat-
ed, we often recognize as a useful veg-
etable. I have often gathered near
the sea the hound's-tongue, easily rec-
ognized by its dark purple-red blos-
soms, and strong smell of mice. Its soft
downy leases are supposed to resem-
ble in form the tongue of a dog, and
from this it derives its Greek and com-
mon name. It is a tall plant, often
growing two feet bgh. Its foliage is a

fa4

Sea-Side Flowers.

doll green, its flowers a rich claret
color.

On the sandy downs and in the rock-
crevices down even to the shore,

** Flourishing so gay and wIMIy free,
Upon the salt-marsh by the roaring sea,"

are the pink and white heads of the
sea-pink, or well-known thriA, so of\cn
nsed as a honlering in our flower-gar-
dens, hut hcrc hanging in little tufls
from the rocks, thriviug where little
nourishment can lie afforded, and thus
well meriting its name. Its leaves grciw
from the root, and mostly resemble
coarse grass. Its flowers form round
heads of lilac-pink blossoms, and ci*own
downy stalks, some four inches high.
There, too, is

** The sea-lavender, which lacks perfume,"

and is a species of everlasting, retain*
ing its color and form long after being
gathered. Its spike of blue-lilac flow-
ers is very handsome. TIktc are sev-
eral species of soa-lavender ; and in
August we have the delicate, lilac-blue
blossoms and bluish-green foliage of the
upright-spiked sea-luvciidi^r, so often
gathered to deck the winter vase. It is
smaller both in leaf and flower than the
former species.

Growing down, even amid the sand,
we may now gather the compact hoad
of the tall erjTigo, or sca-holly, which
has blue blossoms, in shape resembling
the thistle's ; and firm prickly leaves,
beautifully veined, and adorned with
that pale sea-green bloom so common
in our sea-side plants. It grows about
a foot high, and is stiff and rigid.

One of the purest-tinted blue flowers
that we have maybe found fluurisiiing
by the sea. It is the narrow-leaved
pale flax, a sweet, delicate, tragile blos-
som, that drops its petals as we gather
it It is a tall plant, witli a solitary
flower on each stem, and small alter-
nate leaves, adorning each to the root.
Ita stem is tough and fibrous, like all
its species. Thejflaic cultivated for
commerce is a pretty pale-blue bell,
erect and fragile, dancing and trem-

bling with the faintest whispei
passing breeze. Mrs. Ilowitt
scribes it:

" Oh ! Ihe'ffoodly flajc-flower I

It groveth on the hiU ;
Ami bf the brecxe aw.ike or ul«e7

It never stand^Mh «lill !
It seemeth all astir wlltj life,

A«» If it Inreii to thrire,
As If it bail a merry heart

WlUiUi itsitcoi alive."

How pretty are the little sa
now in blossom, especially I
pim[)ernel, or sea-side sandwoi
blooms in shining, glo-^sy pate!
a few inches high. Its chiAiorii
flowers are almost hidden by tl
crowding, succulent leaves. T
ten species of sandwort. Perl
commonest of all is the sea-spur
wort, which hangs its little
blossoms in trailing tufts from
sides.

Li this month also we ma;
the white-rayed flowers of the
feverfew, which oflen prows f
on the beach. Its blossoms
size of a daisy, its stems tl
leaves stalky, its growth low,
now also, decking the sid»vs
banks, is the perfoliate vol low w
its bright yellow flowers, and |
green leaves, which grow in c
joining at the base, tlie stalk
through them. Tlu? plant gn»>
a foot high, is not uncommon, a
found in flouristiing abundancLr
Kentish coast.

Fringing the summit of th<^
cliff**, and clothing with its du:
yellowish-white flowers andfle:
green leaves the many crevicc:
steep sides of the roeks, we i
the samphire, so plentiful on th
em shores, and espocially at
where it is gathered during ?
pickle. That there is danger
gatherer we may infer from
speare's mention in King L»?ar
the scene is laid near Dover :

•• Ilalf-irajr J
Ilangt one that pftthen samphire : dreadf

Several kinds of sea southerns
now showing their green flowt
saltwort and funny-looking, .

8ick8id€ mown.

led, leafless glasswort are to be
ed DOW, both so useful for the
lej contain.

re is a species of nightshade
to be found flourishing on our
iches, with blossoms shaped like
tato-flower, but white, and fol-
bj black berries, highly poison-
re are also the dwarf-centaury
s dwarf-tufted centaury, neither
g beyond a few inches in height,
assessing light^green stems and
B of rose-colored blossoms.
bucVs-hom plantain is com-
n the sea-shore. It derives its
&om the peculiar cutting of its

f common on the rocky bank is
d mignonette. Though lacking
reel fragrance of the garden
, its pale greenish-yellow spikes
ry omamentaL The sea-side
ows on the links and banks of
aches, but is uncommon. Its
ly shaped blossoms remind one
iweet-pea of the garden :

B iwelling peas on leafy stalks are seen,
1 flowers ofrred and asure shine between/*

the great famine of 15$5, it is
It thousands of families subsist-
he seeds contained in the pods
•ea-side pea.

* the beach, I haye often gath-
le knot-grass, so named from
>ttiness of its stem, and to be
lourishing CTeiy where :

Jm lone qoiet graye,

ild hedgerow, the knot-grass is seen,

n in the mral lane,

•n the verdant plain,

lere humble, and everywhere green.**

peare has called it <^ the hinder-
»t-grass," on account of the ob-
its trailing, tangled stems offer
husbandman. Milton speaks

' The VxkfAisnm^ dew besprent**

amOiar to almost every eye,
; little green patches even be-
he stones of our streets, its
de-pink blossoms growing so
to the stem as to be half hidden
the leaves. Its seeds and

VOL IV. 40

young buds afford a store of food for
birds ; and it is said that swine and
sheep love to feed upon it Milton
tells us,

** The chewing flocks
Had U'en their supper of that savory herb,
The knot-grass.*'

It bears little resemblance to a grass
but this reminds me that among our
sea-side plants the grasses are perhaps
the most interesting, as well as useful
and important, and are often of great
service by their spreading mass of
tough underground stems offering a
strong resistance to the inroads of the
sea. Several of the shores of England
are so protected; and the greater part
of the coast of Holland, being composed
of dikes, owes its security to the pow-
erful obstacles the peculiar growth of
these grasses affords. Thus we see

'* The commonest things may ofttlmes be
Those of the greatest utility.
How many uses hath grass which groweth.
Wheresoever the wild wind bloweth.**

Useful as the sea-side grasses are,
however, we have not space in this
short paper to take more than a pass-
ing glance at them, remarking that
the two most deserving of notice for
their value in sea-resistance are the
sea-wheat grass and the sea-reed.

I have often seen flourishing near
the sea-coast the rich clusters of the
ragwort (Senecio Jacohaa), bright as
the golden sunbeam, waving its tall
blossoms in the breeze, and emitting a
strong smell of honey. It opens its
flowers first in July, but often,*

" Coming like an after-thought.
When other flowers are vainly sought,**

lingers on until Christmas ; and when
cold winds and wintry snows have
withered every other flower, this re-
mains,

•* A token to the wintry earth that beauty Uveth stUL*'

Very pretty is the yellow carpet spread
on the dry bank by the yellow bed-
straw, with its mass of tiny blossoms
and slender thready leaves of brilliant
green. Its flowers, like those of the
ragwort just mentioned, also smell
sweetly of honey. In the Hebrides, a.

826

On the Request of the Daughter of Herodias.

reildish-brown dye is extracted from
its roots.

lu September, wo see the tall, hand-
some golden-rod, not only in our
woods and hedgeways. but also on the
sea-side clifT, somewhat stunted in
growth, but still beautiful with its
crowded clusters of golden blossoms,
over which butterflies, moths, and bees
boyer incessantly, in spite of its

" Florets wrapped In silky down,
To guard it from the bee."

In the diiys of Queen Elizabeth it
was sold in the London markets by
herb-dealers. It was supposed to euro
wounds.

Then also the Michaelmas daisy, or
sea-starwort, opens its pale lilac pet-
als, and continues to blossom until
other flowers have nearly all faded
away:

•• And the solo Wos*om which can j?lad Iho CTd
Is yon palu ittarwort nodding to the wlnd.'^

It often grows as high as three feet ;
its leaves are smooth, a sickly green
in color, and very succulent. At this
time we shall also And the marsh-
mallow. It is a medicinal plant, con-
taining a quantity of starcliy mucilage,
which is formed into a paste, and tak-
en as a cure for coughs. Its flowers
are a pretty rose-tint; its leaves soft,
downy, and very thick. It grows
about two feet high, and is altogether

an attractive^ handsome pla
more valued,

•* D«can^c a fair flower that IJlanilnp? Ih* •
When the t<.'Ui|K.<t •*{ n'lntvr U r.t at -.
*Mid the fruwni rif liilvtr-ily, cherM-jl ..|
And gay, when all ** daik and servor."

Such are a few of the .sea-si
soms to be gathered on our
Let my reader.-*, next summer
ramble along the beach, and I
themselves, when they may «
a host of fresh beauties ri.sin;
sides, creeping over the looc
topping the rocky heights, or
the grassy slopes —

*• As thouirh some pifnlle an^ol,
roinnu!>.4toniil lovc l'> te^r.
Had w.in'U-ro-l uVr t^-- ;:r«*':i-«r
And left hur f^tprkiti U'ilk.

Let not the humblest, most n(
flower be discanled, for each b
own little mine of beauty, frauj
instruction, and tlic promptings
and holy thoughts, tliat load tl
I'rom " nature up to nature's G

*' Nature n'rvrr dl-I b*:tn
The heart thit lovi-d Llt ; 'ti* Li? pro
TLrough all the ye.trs itf ihi> nir [\i- \
Kruin joy to Joy ; for !«lii can »"» inf^rr
Tlie iiilnil tii:it is within u«i, ».•■> 5»p; n--s
Whh i|uletnea* and bi :iu:.v. n::.! * ■ f r
With IWty llioiiK'hL*. Uiiit :i. it!i^.r tv.I i
Ila«h Jiid}rinenti>, uor the it..!;: « if tK.i
Nor greeting!) wiit-re im kin In-.'?? :*. l-
TUe drciiry intercourse nf <l.ti(v l.fiif.
Shall e'er pret'uil ai^aln^t u«. ^■rdi*t■:r^
Our cheerful faiih, that all that we bdi
IsfullofbloiUi^s.*'

ON TIIE REQUEST OF THE DAUGHTER OF IIERODL

** I will that forthwith Uiou giro me in a dish the bead of John the Daplut/'

Fie, silly child ! Tliou askest more
Thau Herod doth engage to grant —

As lime hath tnily shown.
That head, en.shrouded in its gore,
"Would l>c a price exorbitant

For all of Herod's throne.

1%$ Church and Monareh/.

6S7

THE CHURCH AND MONARCEIY.

JROFT, the learned and
historian of the United
of his Tolume3 devoted
of the American Revo-
the remark that ** Catho-
leral inclined to monar-
istants to republicanism."
common opinion with non-
rican writers, and a large
American people honest-
e rapid spread of Catho-
jountry is pregnant with
• republican institutions,
late bishop of Charles-
e most illustrious Catho-
le country has ever had,
I the contrary, with great
id force, that the church
r monarchy, but does fa-
lism. What is the fact
The question is not doc-
storical, and relates to
Protestants, rather than
and Protestantism.
B observed before enter-
investigation of the his-
n the case, that in the
[ theology is superior to
no intelligent Catholic
or can consent to have
ied by a political stand-
urch, the Catholic holds,
lat is supreme, eternal,
L immutable in human
at political principle or
conflicts with her, is by
le condemned as false ;
cts with the eternal,
i immutable principled
government, or the truth
n of things. Religion is
who believes in any re-
supreme law, and in case
reen religion and politics,
iligion, must give way.
ded in his faith, sure of

his church, the Catholic has never any
dread of historical facts,. and can al-
ways, so far as his seligion is concern-
ed, enter upon historical investigations
with perfect freedom and impartiality
of mind. He has no fear of conse-
quences. Let the historical fact turn
out as it may, it can never warrant any
conclusions unfavorable to his religion.
If the fact should place his politiGS
in conflict with hia religion, he knows
they are so hx untenable, and that he
must modify or change them. The
historian of the United States is
deeply penetrated with a sense of the
independence and supremac^y of mor-
al or spiritual truth, and with a justice
rare in non-Catholic writers, attrib*
utes much of the corruption of
French society in the last century
to the subjection of the church to
the state. Most non- Catholic writ-
ers, however, consider what is call-
ed Grallicanism as far more favora^
ble to society than what they call
Ultramontanism ; and in doing so^
prove that they really, consciously or
unconsciously, assume the supremacy
of the political order, not of the re^
ligious. But in this they grossly err,
and make the greater yield to the
less ; for not only is religion in the na»
ture of things superior to politics, bat
one is always more certain of the truth
of his religion than he is or can be of
the wisdom and soundness of his poll*
tics.

The church teaches the divine sys-
tem of the universe, asserts and main-
tains the great catholic principles from
which proceeds all life, whether re-
ligious or political, and without which
there can be neither church nor state ;
but it is well known that she prescribet
no particular constitution of the state
or form of civil government, for 00

628

7%« Ckwrek and Manarehy.

■i

■; \

particular constitution or form ia or
can ^be catholic, or adapted alike to
the wants and interests of all nations.
Whatever is catholic in ]>o]itic8, that
is, universally true and obligatory, is
included in theology ; what is particu-
lar, 8(>ecial, temporary, or variable,
the church leaves to each political
community to determine and manage
for itself according to its own wisdom
and prudence. ,

Every statesman worthy at all of
the name knows that the same form of
government is not fitteil alike to the
wants and interests of all nations, nor
even of the same nation through all
possible stages of its existence; and
hence there is and can be no catholic
form of government, and therefore the
church, as catholic, can enjoin no partic-
ular form as universally obligatory up-
on Catholics. Were she to do so she
would attempt to make the particular
universal, and thus war against the truth
and the real constitution of things, and
belie her own catholicity. The prin-
ciples of government, of all govern-
ment, are catholic, and lie in the mor-
al or spiritual order, us do all real
principles. These the church teaches
and insists on always and everywhere
with all her divine authority and en-
ergy ; but their practical appUcation,
saving the principles themselves, she
leaves to the wisdom and prudence
of each political community. The
principles being universal, etenial,
and unalterable, are within the prov-
ince of the Catholic theologian; the
practical application of the principles,
which varies, and must vary, accord-
ing to time and place, according to
the special wants and interests of
each political community, are within
the provmce of the statesman.

Such being the kiw in the case, it is
evident that the church docs and can
prescribe no particular form of civil
government, and Catholics are free
to be monarchists, aristocrats, or demo-
crats, according to their own judgment
as statesmen. They are as free to
differ among themselves as to forms
of government as other men are, and

do differ more or less am<
selves, witliout thereby cea
sound Catholics. Mr. Bam
ever, does not even preten<
church rec^uires her childi
monarchists, and he more
insinuates that her prin
Bishop England maintain:
republicanism, the contrary
is done by most non-C*athol

To determine what is th
must define our terms, ^oi
republic are terms often va
loosely ufchL All govenin
have at their head a king oi
are usually called, by even n
writers, monarchies, and t
have not are usually cal]«
lies, whether democratic lik
Athens, aristocratic like Vi*
to her suppressiim by (iene
parte, or repr(.'sentative like t
States. But this distinctic
piiilosophical or exact. AI
ments, pn»|>erly speaking,
the sovereignty is held to v«
people or political comniunit
king or emperor hi)lds from
munity and represents the n
the state, are n'publioan, as v
rial Borne or is IniiK'rial Fr
governmeuls, on the other
which the sovereit:nty vests i
poHtical community, but in the
al and is held as a personal r
a private estate, arc in princip
chicaL This is, in reality, tl
distinction between republic?
monarchy, and betwet*n c
and barbarism, and it is so i
should be understood.

The key to modem histo
struggle between these twc
systems, or between Roman
tion and German barbarism,
sequently to Charlemagne,
pecially between feudalism
man imperialism. In this
the sympathies and influem
church have been on the sii
barbarism and feudalism, a
vor of the Roman system, a
fore on the side of repul
Rome, theoretically aud i

The Church and Monarchy,

629

lemamed a republic under the em-
peron from Augustus to Augustulus.
However arbitrary or despotic some
of the Caesars may have been and
eertainly were in practice, in prind-
1^ they were elective, and held their
power from the political community.
The army had always the fiiculty of
bestowing the military title of Impera-
tor or emperor, and all the powers ag-
gregated to it, as the tribunitial, the
pontifical, the consular, etc., were ex-
prcttly conferred on Augustus by the
lenate and people of Kome. The
•orereignty vested in the political
eoomiDDity^ never in the person of
Ae emperor. The emperor repre-
Mnted the state, but never was him-
lelf the state. In principle Roman
im[ieriali8m was republican, not in the
itiict or absolute sense monarchical
itilL

The barbarian system brought from
the (weBts of Grermany was in its prin-
ciple wholly different. Under it pow-
er was a personal inght, and not, as
under Roman imperialism, a trust from
the o(MDmunity. With the barbarians
there were tribes, nations, oonfedera-
oeB, but no commonwealth, no repub-
lic no dvil community, no political
gMpk, no state. Republic, res pub-
*M» Scipio says, in the Repuhlica of
Cieero, cited by St. Augustine in his
J^ Oivitaie Dei^ means res populi ;
•nd he adds, that by people is to be
nofestood not every assodation of the
"i^ude, but a legal association for
^ common weaL **Non esse om-
^1^ CQtum multitudinis, sed coetum
jp^ oondensu et utilitatis commu-
™*c codatom."* In this sense there
JJ* no people, no res populi, or af-
"" of the people, under the barba-
''•n 83rBtem,nor even under the feudal
^^^ to which, with some Roman
'J^it gave birth after Charlemagne.
Abtohte monarchy, which alone is
P'^'^periy monarchy, according to Bish-
^ England, did not exist among the
'■'iMirians in its full development;
I'nt it existed in germ, for its germ is
>n the barbarian chieftainship, in the

*A|nrf8b Angostine^ torn. tU. T& Bl

fact that with the barbarians power is
personal, not political, a right or privi-
lege, not a trust, and every feu dad no-
ble developed is an absolute mon-
arch.

These two systems after the con-
quest occupied the same soil. What
remained of the old Roman popula-
tion continued, except in politics, to be
governed by the Roman law, lex JR(h
manorum, and the barbarians by the
lex barharorun^ or their own laws and
usages. But as much as they despised
the conquered race, the barbarians bor-
rowed and assimilated many Roman
ideas. The ministers of the barbarian
kings or chiefs were for a long time
either Romans or men trained in the
Roman schools, for the barbarians had
no schools of their own, and the old
schools of the empire were at no time
wholly broken up, and continued their
old course of studies with greater or
less success till superseded by mod-
em universities. The story told us
of finding a copy of tlie Civil or Ro-
man Law at Amalfi, in the eleventh
century, a fable in the sense commonly
received, indicates that the distinction
between barbarian and Roman in that
century was beginning to be effaced,
and that the Roman Law, as digested or
codified by the lawyers of Justinian,
was beginning to become the common
law in the West as it long had been
in the East, and still is in all the west-
em nations fomied within the limits
of the old Roman empire, unless Eng-
land be an exception. There was com-
menced, even before the downfall of
Rome, a process of assimilation of
Roman ideas and manners by the bar-
barians, which went on with greater
force and rapidity in proportion as the
barbarians were brought into the com-
munion of the church. This process
is still going on, and has gone furthest
in Fnuice and our own country.

The barbarian chiefs sought to unite
in themselves all the powers that had
been aggregated to the Roman empe*
ror, and to hold them not fn)m the
political community, but in tlieir own
personal right, which, had they sue-

€S0

77« C^urt^ and Monarth\

ceeded, wtJuU liave matic them mon-
arciis in ihe fall and absolute sense
of the term. Charlcmaj]nic Irird to
revive and re-esUibUsh Koinan impe-
rialisra, but his attempt waa prema*
ture ; the populations of the empire
were in his time not sufficiently Ro-
manised to enable hira to saccoed. Ue
\ failed, and his failure resuUt;:d in the
establishment of feudalism — the chief
elements of which were brought from
Gennany. The lioraan element,
through the influence of the church
and the old population of the empire,
had from the close of (he fifth cen-
tury to the opening of the ninth ac-
quired ^rcat strength* but not enough
to become predominant. The German-
ic or barbarian elements, re-enforced
as they were by the barbarians out-
side of both the ehurch and the em-
pire, were too strong for it^ and the
empire of Charlema«jfne was hardly
formed before it fell to piece*. But
barbarism did not rtMuatn alone in
feudalij?m, and Roman principles, to
some extent, were incorporated into
feudal Europe, and the Roman law
was applied, wherever it could be, to
the tenure of power, its rights and ob-
ligations; to the regulation^ foil'elture*
and transmission of 6ef>, and to the
administi^tion of justice between man
and man, as we apply the Common
Law in our own country. But the con-
stitution of the ieuchil society was es-
eentially an ti- Roman and at war with
the principles of the Civil or Roman
Law. Hence commenced a struggle
between the feudal law and the civil
— feudalism seeking to rvtain i\^ social
organization based on distinctions of
class, privileges, and corporations ; and
the civil law, based on the principle of
the equality of all mon by the natural
law, seeking to eliminate the feudal
elementi* from society, and to restore
the Roman constitution, which makes
power a trust derived from the com-
munity, instead of a personal right or
privilege held independently of llie
community.

In this struggle Ihe cliurch has al-
w«js eyrapalhized with Ihe Romadi*

ing tendeiunes. It wa» i

ronageof th- ^^'' "• *^'
sought to n
to re^establisii m
constitution of so
ous efforts ended
atization and
ism. Tiie Franconiani
Swabian empcrore ;
die work of Ch
opposed and drf
nut l)ccause she Imd
witii feudiUism, but
perors underUM>k to \
and military powi*rs
man emperors the
which before the
empire tlicy also held*
not tolerate, for by the *
the imperial power and
arc separateil, and tbe
thority, as sucli, luw no i
spirituals. The Foj
and severe stmsriErh**
emperors, or
man empire,
did not stru-
but the jn^l
threal*-Mi
uf the p

emperoi !^ uf pagaii
real meaning of the
have been so strao
ed, and so groeiily
the majority of histi
and Leu, both Prolci
clnsively shown* St.
who is the lic«t rrprear
church in that lon^ war, (
gle to
many f<

th« churcU ur tlu^j;)^
of civil |Hiwcr, but
apir < pcndeo

or i , '^^ndeot \

thivrily ij\i:i' all her <
spiritual, a«rnin t the
claimed, inc '

authority in
tern pontic. Forttiei
ory IX. and Iniio
Frederic U^ tlte liist mxA
the Hohejistaufut^ th«
chiJdliood of Xuuoct^nt IU« .

I%» Ckureh and Monarchy,

681

lertoolc to reyise Roman imperialism
^giuoftt mediffival feudalism, bat un-
bappil^ be remembered that the pa-
gan emperor was Pontifex Maximus,
as well as Imperator. Had he sim-
ply labored to Bubstilate the Roman
ooDstitution of society for the feudal
without seeking to subject the church
to the empire, he mi^ht have been op-
posed by all those Catholics, whether
lay or deric, whose interests were iden-
tified with feudalism, but not by the
duiTch herself; at least nothing indi-
cates that she would have opposed
Um, for her sympathies were not and
l»?e never been with the feudal con-
■titntioQ of society.

lathe subsequent struggles between
the two systems, the church, as far as
I lukTe discovered, has uniformly sym-
pathized with kings and kaisers only
10 far as they simply asserted the re-
publican principles of the Roman con-
■titatioQ against feudalism, and has
nDifonnly opposed them, whenever
they dauned or attempted to exercise
pontifical authority, or to make the
tempond supreme over the spiritual,
that is to say, to subject conscience to
the state. But in this she has been
OD the side of liberty in its largest
•nd tmest sense. Liberty, as com-
■wnly understood^ or as it enters into
the life, the thought, and conscience of
■wten Christian nations, is certainly
0^ Greek and Roman, not barbarian
^^^^gin, enlarged and purified by Chris-
ttaty. The pagan republic united in
^ sovereign people both the pontifi-
f*l «nd imperial powers as they were
^ the pagan emperors, and hence sub-
J*^ the individual, both exteriorly
■■d interiorly, to the state, and left him
■0 rights which he could assert before
"• i^blic The Christian republic
■^ to the liberty of the state, the
™*rty of the individual, and so far
J^Hcts the power of the state over
wridnals. This personal or indi-
▼Uoal freedom, unknown in the 6ne-
^Boman republic, Guizot and ma-
'7 others tell us was introduced by
^ Gennan invaders of the Roman
They assign it a barbarian

origin ; but I am unable to agree with
them, because I cannot find that* the
German barbarians ever had it. The
barbarian, as the feudal, individual
freedom was the freedom of the chief
or noble, not the freedom of all men,
or of all individuals irrespective of
class or caste. This universal indi-
vidual freedom, asserted and in a meas-
ure secured by the Christian republic,
could not be a development of a barba-
rian idea, or come by way of logical
deduction from the barbarian individ-
ual freedom, for it rests on a different
basis^ and is different in kind. The only
ancient people with whom I can find
any distinct traces of it are the He-
brew people. It is plainly asserted in
the laws of Moses for the Jewish peo-
ple. Christianity asserts it for all, both
Jews and Gentiles, in that noble max-
im. We must obey God mther than
men. Every martyr to the Christian
faith asserted it, in choosing rather to
be put to death in the most frightful
and excruciating forms than to yield
up the freedom of conscience at the
command of Uie civil authority, and
the church shows that she approves it
by preserving the relics of martyrs,
and proposing them to the perpetual
veneration of ilie faithful. The mar-
tyr witnesses alike to faith and the
freedom of conscience.

To this individual freedom, as the
right of manhood, the real enemy is
the feudal society, which is founded on
privilege ; and where then should the
church be found but on the side of
those who asserted Gi'ieco-Roman civ-
ilization as enlarged, purified, and in-
vigorated by Christianity against the
barbarian elements retained by the
feudal society ? It was her place as
the friend of liberty and civilization..
There can be no question that since
the beginning of the fifteenth century
the interests of humanity, liberty, reli-
gion, have been with the kings and peo-
ple, as against the feudal nobility. It is
owing to this fact, not to any partiality
for monarchy, even in its represent-
ative sense, that the church has sup-
ported the monarchs in their struggle

• J

■'f

-n
\i

r ?

I
I'
I

682

The Church and Monarehy,

against feudal privileges and corpora-
tions.

But it ]g said that she has favored
Roman imperialism not only against
feudalism, but also against democracy.
This is partially true, but she has
done so for the very reason that in
tlie twelAh and thirteenth centuries
she opposed the German emperors, be-
cause everywhere, except in the Unit-
ed States, it seeks to unite in the re-
public or state, after the manner of the
pagan republic, both the imperial and
the pontifical powers. In the United
States this has not been done ; our re-
public recognizes its own incom laten-
cy in spirituals, protects all religions
not contra bonos mores, and establish-
es none; and here the church has
never opposed republicanism or de-
mocracy. In Europe she has done so,
not always, but generally since the
FriMich revolution assumed to itself
pontifical authority. In the beginning
of the French revolution, while it was
conlinod to the correction of abuses,
the redress of grievances, and tlie ex-
tension and confirmation of civil liber-
ty, tlie Pope, Pins VI., the cardinals,
prelates, and j>oople of Rome, en-
counigud it ; and the Pope censured
it only when it transoende<l the civil
order, made a new distribution of dio-
cesei«, enacted a civil constitution f4)r
the clergy, and sought to separate
the Gallican Church ti-om the Catholic
Church, precisely as the Po]m?s had
previously censured Henry IV., Fred-
eric Barbarossa, Frederic II., Louis
of Bavaria, and others. She op-
poses to-ilay European demo<Tats, not
because they are democrats, but be-
cause they claim for the people the
pontifical power, and seek to put them
in the place of the church, nay, in the
place of Cn)d. The more a<lvanced
among them uttrr the words, people-
jponiilf and people-God. as well as
peoph'-king, and your German demo-
crats assert almost to a man humanity
as the supreme Gml. Slic^ opposes
them not because they make deadly
war on m«)iiarchy and aristocracy,
and assert the sovereignty, under Grod,

of the people, but because
against catholic truth, the j
nal universal, and immuta
pies of the divine fcovemn]
lie at the basis of all govcn
indeed of society itself, and
she is the divinely appointee
in human affairs. If frhe si:
European governments aga
it is not because those gc
are monarchical or aristocra
constitution, but because tl
sent, however imi>er1ectly,
ests of humanity, social onk
tion, without which there i:
be no real progress. She
pose them because they seel
lish democratic govenirae
they seek to do so by ur
unjust means, because she
for the faithful no panicula
civil government, and cannot
cause no particular form is
Catholic. She offers do op]
American democracy.

The church 0|>i»oses, by li
pies, however, what is callw
ism, or what is commonly a
by oriental desiKitism, that
arcliy as und^^rstood by Bi^
land, under which the* monai
to be the absolute owiht o
and the people of the mi
may disjK)se of either at his
This is evident from the f.ict
she speaks officially of thf
e rally, without n'tevring to ai
lar state, she calls it respi
republic; esiH»cially is this
when she speaks o( the ci\
in distinction from the cc<
society. Our present Hoi
in his much misapprehendfd
ly misrepresented Encyclics
cember 8, 1804, ctills'the
munity rcspiibiica^ or comir
St. Augustine denies that
given to man the lonlshij
He gave man the lordship oi
over irrational creations, bi
the rational madg in his oi
** Rationalem factum ad
8 nam noluit nisi irrationab
miuari : non hominem homin

7%« Church and Monarchy.

633

1 peoori. Lide primi justi pastores
peooram magis quam regcs honiinum
ooDsdtati sunt.^* Hence he denies
tfiat tbe master has the lordship of
his servants or slaves, and admits
skrerf only as a pnaishment, as does
the dvil law itself. For the same rea-
son we may conclude against despot-
ism. If the master has not the abso
hte lordship of his servants, far less
em a king have the absolute lordship
of a whole nation. St. Gregory the
Grett dtes St. Augustine with appro-
\ faition, so also, if my memory serves
\ ae, does St. Gregory. VU., the famous
Hfldebiand, who tells the princes of
_ las time that they hold their power
from violence, wrong, Satan.

ClUholic writers of the highest au-

dwritjr, St. Augustine, St Thomas,

Bdlarmln, and Suarez, whom to cite

■ to 6i<^ nearly the whole body of

Citholic theologians, follow in the main

the political philosophy of Greece and

Borne as set forth by Plato, .^totle,

*iid(Scero ; and there is no doubt that,

wMe vesting sovereignty in the com-

i^Qoitj, or the people politically asso-

Wed, they generally incline to mon-

■'Ay, tempered by a mixture of aris-

terftcy and demodiu^y, as does Aris-

**tte himself. But the monarchy they

«V0ri8 always the representative mon-

^^y, the Roman, not the feudal or

"* oriental. The prince or king,

•^^(iiding to them, holds his power

the people or community, jure

» not jure divino^ and holds it

^ a trusty not as a personal and inde-

^J^iWe right It is amissible; the

™*8 may forfeit it, and be deprived of

1*^ St Augustine asserts, and Suarez

■W^ him, the inherent right of the

?f2t*^ ®' political society to change

^^iv magistrates and even their form

^ government; and the Popes, on

'IJ'^I^ occasions than one in the mid-

. *S^ ^^^ ^^\f excommunicated

V^^xuxs, but declared them by a sol-

•'■^Jt judgment deprived of their crowns,

^1^ proves, if nothing else, that kings

•i&d kidsers are held by the church to

te Xttponsible to the nation for the

• Di OtI*. ML Opwa, torn. TlL 900.

manner in which tjicy use tlieir trusts,
for the Popes never declared a forfeit-
ure except on the gix)und that it was
incurred by a vioktion of the civil con-
stitution.

There were numerous republics in
Europe before tlie reformation, as
Venice, Genoa, Florence, the Swiss
Cantons, and many others, not to
speak of the Lombard municipalities,
the Hanse towns, and the Flemish
or Belgian communes, all of which
sprang up during Catholic times, and
were founded and sustained by a
Catholic population. Nearly all of
them have now disappeared, and some
of them almost within our own memo-
ry ; but I am not aware that there is
a single republic in Europe founded
and sustained by Protestants, unless
the United Dutch Provinces, now a
monarchical state, be a partial ex-
ception. The fact that Catholics as
a body are wedded to monarchy is
therefore not susceptible of very satis-
factory proof, not even if we take
monarchy only as representing the
majesty of the people, in which sense
it is republican in principle.

Protestantism is in itself negative,
and neither favors nor disfavors any
form of government ; but the reforma-
tion resulted, wherever it prevailed in
Europe, in unitmg what the church
from the first had strugi^^led to keep
separate, the pontifical and the im-
perial or royal powers, and also in
maintaining the feudal monarchy in-
stead of the Roman or representative
monarchy. In every nation tliat ac-
cepted the reformation the feudal
monarchy was retained, and still sub-
sists. The crown in them all is an
estate, as in England, and in some of
them is, in fact, the only estate re-
cognized by the constitution. The
elector of Saxony, the landgrave of
Hesse, the margrave of Brandenburg,
the kings of Sweden, of Denmark,
and of England and Scotland, be-
came each in his own dominions
supreme pontiff, and united in his own
person the supreme civil and ecclesi-
astical powers. The same in principle

634

Tit fKwni vni Mini ■ iy

Vi*rcame tie fk-^. JTi lb* Prv^ujv:

NTt^'-rl-nd? arj-l th*: Pr*:<«:i'.: -i-fcs-

prrjto= :a b I E y r-ij^an & la!'-? : i'! -ri:-

is not one that n:c*:.zn Lzo? ih-; fr**^i..:n
of reliqion. or that d'y/5 n<t ?u> v.-'r: r?-
lijrion to the civil jio^er- TLe y-V.:i-
cal sen-.e of the reformaiioa wa* :Lere*
fore the unioa of the im(*eria1 aiid
fjontifi'.-al fiowirr? in the j/>li:ical *ov-
ei-T'i^fn, a!td the maintenance of the
feudal monarchy and nobliii v. or the
constitution of societv on feud;il prin-
Hple^. Noihinj^, then, is or can be
furlh'*r from the fact than that Prc#t-
cstant^ generally incline to republi-
can i.-rm, excrjpt the pretence that Prot-
CritatitiTm emancipates the mind and
establishes ndigious lib<:rty.

No doubt, the feudal monarchy and
nobility Ktnj;rjrled in all Europe to
muintain them«elve3 against the Grae-
C'i- Roman 8y^ti*m repii?sented by tlie
(!ivil Law and favore<l by the theolo^i-
auH of the church and her .supreme
]Hintiirs. iSo far as the struggle was
against tht; feudal nobility, or, as I
niuy term it, the system of privilege,
the church, the kings and the ])eo])Ic
have in their genenil action bi.'en on
the same side; and hence in France,
where the Ktruggle was the b<*st de-
fiiHMl, the great nobles were the ilrst
to embnicci the reformation ; they
fame very near detaching the king-
dom itself fi-om the clnircli, during the
wars of tlie Ligue, and were ]>re vent-
ed only by the eonverriion, int^^n'Stod
or siiicen', of Henri Quatre. Henry
Haw clearly enough that monaR'hy could
not struggle sucressfiilly in Fnmcc
against the teudal nobility witiiont the
support iii' the rhun>h ami the pi»o-
ph'. liieln^lieu and Mazarin saw the
t>iuiu\ anil destn»y(;d what n'mainetl
of the teudal nobility as a political
pcnver. T\\v\\ lu) doubt, did it in the
inli*n>st anil fur the time to the ad-
van i age (»f nionarehy. Louis XIV.
c^oncentnittd in himself all the ]k>w-
ers of tin* slat4\ and could say,
' /j\'(af, r\\<t moi — I am the state,"
and tried hard to gnisp the ]H)ntiiioal

f >.ir w. • . — I uz. izf^ ci3r»:ii ?*
AlTij* -Li kzti i: kiaz« a

f*=-tk ::• <•:- ■a.rz^ tlib' powi
raii ■::■ L.t-^.ve:Trs li-e sup
irrA r.:-: . :.:r .>: -:;Til bat :
cl'-?'iiiff: . ^i] a:T- -g. Ms-i cDcrri
tr lAv ...r il-ri ?. xr^ &Ivay» ba
to i'iiiili. irr=-:-lj:r sixi^nrl
nziZ ar-ii-ri tur ?jr:cai of
for na:- -iji ti'.'iy ajiin^t
in:trjru::n^ irrnd-jziciiirs ot"
monan.\'*v xLre^:enei in i>
teenih and t-i^b:.>.n:a c«^n:ui
come alisoluie in all Euroj
met wiih p-^nair.tnt ?aocc
stale thn: did n-..: ad -pi the
lion, and it-ase i-^ l»^ C'aiholi
I hold tliat the liftman co
as modiiied and amended 1
ianity.i« far beitcr for *o^Mely
in accorilance with rtdigion ai
than thi* fcutlal con?ti[udoD
esseij^^Iy kirbnric. if w<
Europe as it really was d
long struggle hardly yet i
shall sec that it was imp
bn.*ak up the feudal const i
society without tor :he morn*
to the kings an undue )>oh
in its turn would need to bt
But in all countries tlmt
Githolic, monarchy was ahv
ed as represenlalivc by x\\
gians, and the ropublic*an
that subsequent to the n
found advocates in PnKesti
were borrowed cither from
cients or from Catholic writer
most part, probably, from tli
val monks, of whom nKMliT
know so little and against w
say so niucli. It was only
countries where the rctorm
followed and religion subji*ci
state that the feudal moiii
veloped into the oriental,
under Henry VHL, Edw
Elizabeth Tudor, and Ja
Charles Stuart, had lost i
its old liberties, and nearly
or w:is centred in the cro^
resislauco offered to Cliarli

I%e Ohtrch and MonohAg,

685

not to gain new but to recover old
Utetics, witb some new and Btronger
guaranties. The Protestant princes
of northern Gcrmanj governed as
alMohitcIj as any oriental despot.
The movement toward republican*
1811 started in the south, not in the
nord), m Catholic not in Protestant
slates. The fact is patent and unde-
aiaUe, explain it as you wilL

I admit that Catholic prmces, as
well as Protestant, sought to grasp
ihe pootifical power, and to subject the
dureh in their respective dominions
to their own authority, but they never
fiiBy succeeded. The civil power
daimed in France more than belong-
ed to it; but while it impeded the free
vorements of the Galilean Church, it
iiBver succeeded in absolutely enslav-
ng it Louis XIV., or even Napo-
km the First, never succeeded in
Bsldng himself the head of the Galli-
can Church ; and the Constitutional
chnreh created bv the Revolution, and
which, like the Church of England,
vas absolutely dependent on the civil
power, has long since disappeared
ud left no trace behind. In Spain,
Portogal, Naples, Tuscany, Austria,
Attempts to subject religion to the
Me have not been wanting, but,
though doing great liarm to both the
ecclesiastical and the civil society, they
l»ye never been completely successful.
It iiooly in Protestant states that they
k^ ildly succeeded, or rather, I
■hnld say, in non-Catholic states, for
^ dorch is as much a slave in Ru6-
■Wtt m Great Britain.

Bossuet, courtier and high-toned
m^l^oaichist as he was, and as much as
■BeoQsented to yield to the king, never
A^ted the competency of the king in
Vritnab strictly so called ; and if he
l^^dcd to the king on the question of
^ fegalia, it was only on the ground
«aQ original concession from the head
" ^ church to the kings of France,
orthe immemorial custom of the king-
^p^not as an inherent right of the
•Wl power. He went too far in
^ Four Artides of 1682 to meet
^ approbatioQ of Innocent XL, but

he did not fall into heresy or schism.
And it may be alleged in his defence,
that if he had not gone thus iar the
court would most likely have gone fur-
ther, and have actually separated the
Galilean Church from the Iloly See.

Bossuet was unquestionably a mon-
archist and something of a courtier,
though he appears to have hud always
the best interests of religion at heart ;
and we can hardly say that he did not
take the best means possible in his
time of promoting them. As one of
the preceptors of the Dauphin, father
of the Duke of Burgundy, of whom
Fenelon was the principal preceptor,
he taught the political system acce()t-
able to the king ; but he impressed on
his pupil as much as possible under
that system a sense of his responHibili-
ty, his duty to regard his power as a
high trust from God to be exercised
without fear or favor for the good of
the people committed to his charge.
Fenelon went further, and hinted that
the nation had not abdicated its orig-
inal rights, and still retained the right
to be consulted in the management of
its affairs ; and he was dismissed from
his preceptorship, forbidden to appear
at court, and exiled to his diocese,
while every possible effort, in which it
is to be regretted that Bossuet took a
prominent part, to degrade him as a
man and a theologian, and to procure
his condemnation as a heretic, was
made by the French court. But here-
tic he was not ; he simply erred in the
use of language which, though it had
been used by canonized saints, was
susceptible of an heretical sense. The
Congregation condemned the language,
not the man, nor his real doctrine.
He retracted the language, not the
doctrine, and edified the world by his »
submission.

There is hardly any doctrine fur-
ther removed from every form of re-
publicanism than that of the divine
right of kings, defended by James L
of England in his Remonstrance for
the Divine Right of Kings and the
Independency of their Crowns, writ-
ten in reply to a speech of the cele-

7%» (^urek and Manarehy,

687

with the Popes denied the oompeten-
C7 of the civil power in spiritoab.
^niis was the principle of their dissent,
•8 it has recently been the principle of
the separation of the Free Kirk in
Soothmd from the national church.
As the king was the head of the
Clmrdi of £ngland, making it a royal
church, they were naturally led to de-
fend their dissent on republican prin-
ciples. M. Guizot seems to regard
the Euglish revolution, which made
Oromwell Lord Protector of the realm,
M primarily political ; but with all due
mpect to so great an authority, I
vatare to say that it was primarily
idigioas, that its first movement was
A protest against the authority of the
king or parliament to onlain anything
ID leiigion not prescribed by the word
cf God. I state the principle univer-
•sUy, without taking notice of the mat-
ten accidentally associated with it, and
•0 itated it is a Catholic principle, al-
ways asserted and insisted on by the
Popes. It was primarily to carry out
this principle, and to regain the civil
liberties lost by the nation through
the reformation, but not foi^otten, that
dMj resisted the king, and made a re-
publican revolution, which very few
msaw or desired. The Puritans who
■ettled in the wilds of America brougiU
vith them the ideas and principles
they had adopted before leaving Eng-
luid, and if they had republican ten-
deBQes, they were hardly republicans.
Ur. Bancroft, in Volume IX. of his
Bbtoiy of the United States, just pub-
lUed, shows very clearly that at the
lM|biUDg of their disputes with the
Mher country the colonists were not
SBoeiilly republican in the ordinary
Mm of the word, but attached to
■eoarchy ailer the English fashion,
*Bi tbo that the struggle ii\the minds
^ the oobnists was long and severe
Mtre they reluctantly abandoned mon-
^fdy BJod accepted republicanism.
|Dte Aroericaft-revolution did not orig-
BWe in any desire to suppress mon-
Mehy as it existed in Great Britain
•od establish republicanism, but to re-
Mt the encroachments of the mother

country on their rights as British colo-
nists, or rather, as British subjects.
The rights of man they asserted had
been derived from the civil law, for
the most part through medium of tlie
common law, and the writings, if not
of Catholic theologians, at least of
Catholic lawj'ers. They held as re-
publicans not from Protestantism, but
chiefly from Greece and Rome. More-
over, a monarchical government was
impracticable, and there really was no
alternative for the American people
but republican government or colonial
dependence. In the main our institu-
tions were the growth of the country,
and were very little influenced by the
political theories of the colonists or
the political wisdom and sagacity of
American statesmen. Hence they are
more strictly the work of Providence
than of human foresight or human in-
telligence and wilL It is therefore
that their permanence and growth are
to be counted on. They have their
root in the soil, and are adapted to
both the soil and the climate. They
are of American origin and growth.

Religious liberty is not, as I have
shown, of Protestant origin. Most of
the colonists held the Catholic princi-
ple of the incompetency of the civil
power in spirituals, but the greater
part of them held that the civil power
is bound to recognize and to provide
for the support by appropriate legisla-
tion of the true religion, and that only.
Yet as they were not agreed among
themselves as to which is the true re-
ligion, or what is the true sense of the
revealed word, and having uo author-
itative interpreter recognized as such
by all, and no one sect being strong
enough to establish itself and to sup-
press the others, there was no course
practicable but to protect all religions
not contra banos mores, and leave each
individual free before the law to choose
his own religion and to worship God
according to the dictates of his own
conscience. This was of absolute ne-
cessity in our case if we were to form
a political community and carry on
civil government at alL

BS8

7^0 Church and Monar^,

I do not claim that Catholics found-
ed ciril and religious liberty in (he
United States, nor do I deny ihat so
tap as men bad a hand in founding
thorn, they were founded by Protea-
tant«, but I do contend ihiit our Prot^
estant ancestors acted in regard to
ihcin on Catholic rather than on Prot-
rtslnnt prineiple§. We have so often
heard civil and religious liber I y spok-
en of a.«* the result of tlie reformation
that many people really believe it,
and many good honest Americiio citi-
zens are really afraid that the rapid
increase of CathoUcity in the country
threatens ruin to our free institutions.
But the only liberty Proteatautism, as
such^ has ever yet favored, is the lib'
crty of the civil power to control the
ecclesiastical. There is no danger to
any other liberty from the spread of
Catholicity, There i^ a great differ-
ence between accepting and sustain-
ing a democratic g^overnment where it
already le^lly exislj^, nnd laboring to
introduce it in opposition to the es-
tiibliahed order, and to the luibits, cus-
torasT ^^"^^ usages of the people whore
it does «ot exist. Aod even if Catholics
in other countries had a preference
for tlie inonarcliical form, they would
not di*eam of introducing it here^ and
would be led by their own conserva*
tive principles^ if hcrc^ to oppose it,
since nothing in their religion requirtja
them, as a Catholic duty, to support
one particular form of government
rather than another.

Protestantism affords in its princi-
ples no basis for either civil or re-
ligious lil>crty. Its great doetrine,
that which it opposes as a religion to
tlie church, is the absolute roonU and
spiritual inabihty of man^ or the total
moral and epiritual depravity of hu-
raim nature, by the fall. This is the
central principle of the reformation,
from which all its distinctive doetrines
mdiute. This doctrine denies all natu-
nil liberty and all natural virtue^ and
hence the reformation maintains justi-
fication without work5^ by faith alone,
m which man is passive^ not active,
and that all the works of uiibelie\ ers

or the unregQDe
impotent for good^l
cannot cvea by
grace. All his tin
are only evil, and
»nd even
sin ftftrr I
God 1
but i\
hisev

the u tin

it covers their iniqaitiei*
ground on which to as
riglits of man, for the 1
man of all his nati
republican equalitr
founds at beet the \
of the elecL, as wa*
Uffe, and attempted to
Calvin in Geneva, nnd
tans in New EugUtml,
the elective franc
to the sji^i
b kth civil
men.

It is time that
popular w^ritcra shotilfl
tie on what they ar
they a'^sert that the refd
ctpated the mind anil|
way tor civil and rell
This has become a
Catholics bear it rep
that some of them aid
it cminot be without
and thenefore th.at theroj
thing uncatholic in civif
liberty. It Is all a mi^
or a delusion. The

and whatever pto^f
has been not by it» 1
mean
by n :

f' of tltc

c ^ 1 of rv'id
mental hberty till he
the Catholic falth^^
freeman into the

I have dwelt at
ject for tlie salce of
and also to qaiel I
Cathohc

The Okmvh and Monarchy.

659

*harch in our coantry will en-
our repablican or democratic
of government. That system
mment is quite as acceptable
)lics as it is to Protestants, and
far better with Catholic prin-
han with the principles of the
tion. The church does not
ar system of government ob-

on all nations; she directly
it nowhere, because no one
B adapted alike to all nations ;
1 nation, under God, is free to
ts political institutions to its
Its, taste, and genius ; but she
led with it here, and requires
Iren to be loyal to it. It is
\ law, and as such I support
night not support a similar
!br Great Britain, France, or
because, though it fits '^ns, it
)t fit equally well the British,
ich, or the Russians, or as well
systems they already have fit
Sly coat may not fit my neigh-

my neighbor's coat may not
I am neither as a Catholic

statesman a political propa-
But I love my own country
affection I was unconscious oi*
3testant, and Americans bred
koUcs will always be found
mong our most ardent pa-
d our most stanch defenders of
1 and religious freedom,
listake is that people are too
make a religion of their poll-

to seek to make the system
nment they happen to be en-
of for themselves a universal
ind to look upon all nations
not accept it. or not blessed
IS deprived of the advantages

of civil society. They make their
system the standard by which all
institutions, all men and nations, are to
be tried. They become political big-
ots, and will tolerate no political the-
ories but their own. Hence, the Ameri-
can people are apt to suppose there is
no political freedom where our system
of government does not prevail ; and to
conclude because the church recognizes
the legitimacy in other forms of gov-
ernments in other countries, and does
not preach a crusade against them,
that she is the enemy of free insti-
tutions and social progress. ' All this
is wrong. Religion is one and catho-
lic, and obligatory upon all alike;
political systems, save in the great
ethical principles which underlie
them, are particular, national, and are
obligatory only on the nation that
adopts them. There are catholic prin-
ciples of government, but no catholic
or universal forfci of government.
Our government is best for us, but
that does not prove that in politidil
matters we are wiser or better than
other civilized nations, or that we have
the right to set ourselves up as the
model nation of the world. Other
nations may not be wholly forsaken
by Providence. Non-Catholic Amer-
icans cry out against the church that
she is anti-republican ; but if we were
monarchists we should cry out as did
the monarchical party in the sixteenth
century, that she is anti-monarchical
and hostile to the independence of
kings. Let us learn that she may
in one age or country support one
form of civil constitution, and without
inconsistency support a different sys-
tem in another

Sobert; or, Uu AJbumet of a Good MoAer.

Translated from the French.

RT; OR, THE INFLUENCE OF A GOOD MOTHER.

JHAPTER FIRST.

;h 70un^ on the earth,
ready alone.

len I a9k myself
•e are those I love ?
X the green turf."

LUIABTIKS.
THE ORPHAN.

seller who passes through
of the baths of Mount
eJ at the base of the moun-
gle, will find that between
tins the little streams of
Dogne unite, and take the
! river Dordogne. In look-
ourse of this new-born riv-
see to the left the raoun-
orchade) thus named from
ess and its deep ravines,
tain crumbles away each
he powerful hand of time,
anic wrecks move the val-
t range sounds, which the
up and wafts to the most
s. On the other side of
to the right of the moun-
n front of Ecorchade, is
untain, the round top of
overed with verdure and
Its base is formed of
imns of black, white, and
of different shapes and
stand there like a troop
3. Near the base, and in
fissures of this mass of
up by some giant hand,
bout twenty-five years ago,
se, constructed, one might
the spirit of the mountain,
\ a refuge for travellers
nous children of the tem-
ichained. Hidden by the
ks of the mountain, and
ipring and summer by the
;e of trees centurfes old,
mddenly became visible to

TOL IT. 41

mortal eye. But the chief interest at-
tached to it is, that for twelve years it
was inhabited by a high-bred lady,
who chose this secluded spot, and
placed herself, one might say, on the
lirst step of this gigantic ladder, which
seemed by degrees to draw her nearer
to heaven, and away from the vain
pursuits of earth. She came unat-
tended, carrying in her arms an infismt
several months old. This child, her
son, was the object of her most tender
care, and was the only thing that was
to endear her to this savage solitude.
From whence came this person, who
was she, and what were her resources
for living ? No one knew. Her real
name even was to remain a mystery
for all, even for those eager and piti-
less people who are always ready to
unravel the causes of secret sorrow,
and who rejoice when they can see
tears and suffering. Such people are
like a species of wasp that only ap»
proach to sting you most cruelly..
The people of the valley had on many
occasions tried to stop this young
woman and capture her confidence by
testimonials of friendship and feigned^
sensibility, but they had seen their in-
sidious advances repulsed with sucb
coldness that, deceived and disappoint*
ed, they were obliged to put an end ta
their efforts. Finally, when all cnri-^
osity had subsided and given place ta
the most complete indifference, they.
learned in some way that she called
herself Madame Dormeuil, and her lit-
tle boy Robert. There was one per-
son, however, who had received the
intimate confidence of Madame Dor-
meuil, and that was the cure of the
village, and from time to time he was
seen directing his steps toward the
solitary abode, where more than one
indiscreet eye had wished to penetrate.
At the time this story opQi» it is

643

Rohftt ; or, 7%e &Jltwnc4 a/ a Good

uigbt, one of those prlorioua nights of
tlie month of May, iiiglits full of swoet
my?«terios and soft j|M?rfume8t nights
dunujjj which the raelmiious voice of
the ni|jjhtirigale rc^ounda in harmoni-
ous cadences. It is the hour of silf^nce
and repose for humanity ; but still a
dim light shone through one of the
windows of tbis isolated houae. As
tho hours of the night advanoed, when
all nature slept, even the smallest in-
ject under the humid leaves of the
roae» hard necessity constrained even
the inmates of thifi honse to sleep, but
alaa ! it proved a funej-al awaking.
The tender mother, who, during the
infancy of her child, had tasted in this
modest ai^ylum moments of happiness,
pure and diaHie* bucU as are only giv-
en to mutenml love^ closed her eye^s
and breathed out her laat 8*gh, with
no one near but her little son* In vain
he chIU his dear mother, her voice can
reply to him no more. Poor child!
what will become of him ? for he has
no one in the wide world to lc»ve and
protect him ; and in I lie bitterness of
his grief he sobs and cries, ** Dead I
dead! I have no motlier now T* and
takes her hand, but it h euld and stifE^
and no longer sensible to the soffc pres-
sure of his. The uuuecu?tomed silence
of iho&elips, that never parted but to
speak tenderly to hlm^ is moi-e than he
can bear, but suddenly his face recov-
ers its habitual serenity, and a smile
lights up his pallid cheeks. What
means this sudden change^ this almost
jnstaotaneous forgetfulness of sorrow^
whtch dries in an instant the tears of
lo\ e ? But do not blame him ; it is not
forgetfuliiess, but reraembnince — the
remembrance of his mother's hiat
words — her ktst adieu, her last sublime
expression of a love which cannot l>e
^xltnguisheil, even by the cold shadow
of death, for it redives in hiiaven.
•♦ My child/' raid his mother to him on
that day, *• I have loved you much^ but
I must leave you. I am going to live
with tlie ang(^ls, but 1 will watch over
you. Be witic, honest, laborious; love
God with all your heart, and others as
joureelf, and he will bless you* Do

not grieve for my hm^ I
be useful to you m he
pray there for you, T|
and always remember^ \
in trouble, lo rai*e
the eternal

will not be •[ lu"

the words which Robert \
and which stopped so
violence of his grief,
he almo?it thought hLs
not df*ad ; this was why
I hough alone ; witi
thoughts forever prrseillj
her eyes would reop
him« lie knelt and|
vor, seeming to soli
manifestation, and hi^
that he mentally invoke<iJ
er and Uie I'ronnrtor of i
he knew to lje good I
prayer, no doubt, was(
e<h for in his imn
home of the saints,
cried the child, tnuisii
*^ is it thee ? Oh ! ^p
spcjik to thy Itolwrt r
tial virion ihih*<i, and he
but the thousands of littl
light, tliL* sparkling ;
ale J Ids eyi'r*. Thuj* m
even from the tomb^ i
authority to this pic
will see him tn each
aud in each crilleal phi
invoking this mystcrio
cent power that
from heaven, in tho
mother It is n\j^a
vro

COIi

to the fuuemi iluiiiilM
upon prayer and reti
Eobert luul never ]
dren. Always with 1
he p;issionately lo?c
versed with hitn as
done with an older pen
quired a seriousness of \
and a [ireeocity of
ma<le him, though still a t
almost a man in hin mU
good sense. Child of
flower of the muimtAtUt]

Soheri; or^ The Influ/enee of a Good Mother.

643

\f ^omnt of the habits of cities and
of sodetj, bat he possessed an instinct
vhich took the place of large expe-
rience in human nature. He was what
God had made him, good and generous,
loving the beautiful with the fervent
adoration which characterizes great
Boals, and feeling a deep repugnance
for even the appearance of evil. These
ioesthnable gifts Grod in his wisdom has
Men fit to endow to certain souls.

Robert was not more than twelve
Jttrs of age, but he could read and
write well Possessed of a good mem-
Ofjyhe had retained the many recita-
tionB made him by his mother in geog-
raphy and sacred and profane history.
Hia coarse of reading had not been
exrensive, for his mother had but few
books; but she had been to him the liv-
ing book from which he had gained all
he knew, and which developed thequali-
to of the heart and Christian virtues
whidi, later in life, «hone so brilliantly
in him. Robert was often absorbed in
thinking over his past life, so rich in
delicious memories. He remembered
^ big mother had spoken to him of
Pttia with an emotion which betrayed
iteclf m her trembling voice. She was
^M>ni there, she had told him, and had
P««eda part of her youth there. He
Kinembered perfectly that, each time
hia mother referred to the subject, she
<^xetci8ed upon him a charm which en-
felj captivated his attention. If by
^ gbwing descriptions IVIadame Dor-
B*^! had any intention of exciting in
^ Bon the wish to go to that city, she
fonpletely succeeded, for, notwithstand-
™8 Ws tender years, the words of his
1^^^^ had fille^l him with an ardent
JOiire to see the place predestined to
J^ the most beautiful and most wonder-
j^^evcr built by the hands of man.
''^B desire taking hold of him, he nat-
?**% thinks of the means of satisfy-
^ it} if the unfortunate circumstan-
*? in which be finds himself will per-
n>it Moved by the strong wish, which
^ IK* weakened when obstacles pre-
JJM themselves, Robert tried to get
^^ ready to start Opening a closet
^n^he had often seen his mother put

things she intended for him, the first
object that met his eyes was a package,
tied, and bearing this inscription, ^ For
my son when he is twenty-one years of
age." Under this was another paper,
fold3d double, but not tied. He open-
ed this, looking at the words which
were written at the top : " My last re-
quests." ** When I shall be no more,
my son," said Madame Dormeuil (and
unfortunately the hour of death ap-
proaches veiynear) ''quit this mountain
where thou hast been a happy child,
and go to Paris, where thou wast bom.
God and my love will conduct thee
there, but constantly place thyself un-
der his protection. Work ; make thy-
self beloved, by thy sweetness and per-
severance and good conduct. A voice
within said to me one day, that happi-
ness crowned all virtuous efforts, and
this prediction of my heart will be re-
alized, and thy mother will rejoice in
heaven when she sees it descend on
thee. Thou wilt find in a purse som*
crown pieces ; it is all that I possess.
Start soon, walkihe short roads, have
courage. Avoid bad children, seek the
old and the wise. Pray to God fer-
vently, and he will never abandon the
good who walk in his presence and
keep in their hearts the counsels of a
mother. Adieu, my child, my dear
and much loved Robert I will meet
you in a better world tlian that in
which I leave you, my poor little one,
and then we will never part again."

Robert covered with kisses and with
tears the words traced by the failing
hand of his mother; then, when he was
a little calmed, it made him happy to
know that she had conceived a plan
which was precisely the same he had
thought of, and that she was solicitous
for him to go. The rest of the night
passed slowly enough to the young or-
phan. At daybreak he came down
from the mountain and knocked at the
door of the rectory. The virtuous and
worthy cure, who preached to the in-
habitants of the village of Bains, re-
ceived him with the utmost kindness,
for he had known him long and well,
and had already initiated him into the

Baberi ; or, The hjtueme of a Good

myfitcries of oar divine religion, and
from hia pure and touching morab hn
bad been led to give biin hia first com*
m union* When he saw the poor child
in such distress he could seartiely utter
a word, Fo much did he feel for his
bleeding heart, neitlier coiiM he ask
him tlie questions he knew he ought
relative to his leavinjaf the isolated place
in wl+ioh he had livedo noreouM Robert
have answered them, &o full was he of
emotion ; bat he said to him in a pater-
nal tone and Ml of interest : " Let us
see, my child, what is lo be done with
your effects, Don*t you think that you
ikhould leave the place, now that you
are alooe ? What do you intend to do ?
Have you formed any project ? If you
Imve confidence in me» tell me your
ideas, speak to me openly, and all tlmt
I can possibly do for you 1 will with
plensure. I hare no occupation but to
do g-ood to others, to console them iu
their sorrows, and take them by the
hand when they need a^.^islance,'*
** Thank you, good cure,** replied Rob-
ert, with sweetness and re«*[iect. ** 1
desire to obey the wishes of my mother,
who tells me to go to Paris, See what
she says tome — this dear, pood mother
— betbre she dies,'' holding? to him with
a trembling hand the precious paper
containing the interpretation of his
mother's wishes. He then said : ** Is it
not a sacred duty I owe my mother,
that of accomplishing her last request ?*'
** Yes, my dear cliild, but you are very
young to take so long a journey on foot
to Paris. Do you know any one there ?**
**No, sir; but my mother said I must
gc3, nnd no matter how I get there I
must do it." ** Your resolutioo is
pniise worthy my child, yel it seem:* to
me that you should reflect a Utile, be-
fore undertaking what seems bo much
for you* But if you really must at-
tempt it, I will give you a letter to a
friend of mine, who is now cure of tlie
Church of Saint* Germain rAuxerrois.
This reeommendationv I hope, will bo
of great assistance to you, for my friend
is a num of rare Tirtues and inexhaust-
ible charity. Place younielf under his
protection^ and I do not doubt but you

will soon be om of
think yon nhmM weSL jt
the proceeds would enail
very much, Bot, inj oj
treme youth fri^teni n
you will nev Par

tranquil, gtH- I

to God as luy jj 1

shall arrive witlio i ^ d
but little taiigtic*' - 0(
have x\o longer any^ obJocCi
you desire it so mmk^ I
can to facilitate jo«ir prq]
I am gone n^frei»h ^-tusrad
thing to eat, it witi bIi^
bo<Jy, which canoot but be
the sufferings of your «|
hear, my child ,'' I wmal
some nourishmGiilf if it i
you will feel better aHa*
turn directly,*^ and,
him, the vencrmble curd
which of his paHsl
chase tlie furisitim
phan*

CBAPnCB t^

«illt)«ib«ar«ri

THE rAftvvn
I
The euro was a loi^
and when he retomftd
news for Robert ; hit
been inelTectuah ** Mj
he, " my Wish*-» for diS[
furniture havia beeii la
not be diaooimys^
pay tbe latl JOmA of
mother, and tbeoi we
otlier Uiings*** Bobeit
and on the way told
ago of paper)» he hai
closet, the cofitenta of
not to know taiitit be

mmority.

'* I adviie you^ my cbil
ilie package to take e«ri
should loB4! it, tt wottkl b<
ble loss, and in%bi be I

Btlberi; ar^ 7%e Ji/kmet of a Good MMmr.

645

remits. Toa need fear no ae-
on my part, for, if God should
\ (o him, before we meet agun,
wit it in safe hands ; for instanee,
)lease yon, to the Notary of
a small town about two leagues
ere. It might be a long time
you would return, but the grave
r mother will draw you here,
mow you are too good a son to
it I am sure, then, of seeing
metimes if God wills it, for it
Supreme Arbiter who decides
igth of our days.'' They had
)y this time to the house, the
' which was opened by a wom-
> had been sent there by the
I '^ lay " out the mother of the
"phan. Her body was then en-
in the coffin, and the cortege
e way which led to the church-
rhere rest at last the king and
>jects, the rich and the poor,
hat courage it requires to bear
er the sorrows of this last sad
ibove all when the earth re-

the remains of a cherished
. How each sound that fell on
ffin bruised this poor child's

And were it not for the consol*
»pe, the firm belief, that his
' was in heaven, his life would

of despair; but he believed
ihe told him before she died,
te would rest on the bosom of
nd that she would watch over
th the same love and the same
de of which she had given
I many proofs during her life.
18 the last to leave this new
which hid from his sight for^
le only being he ever loved,
hich was watered with filial

**Ohr he exclaimed, "if I
tly put a stone over my good
, it will be a consolation to know,
[ visit the spot where I leave
rt, that it is marked by the love
m." Full of this idea he re-
it afterward to the good cur^,
ok an interest in it, and listen*
h tears in his eyes, while the
wanted the cost of a simple

** Bat, my child," he said sad-

ly, " all simple as it may be, it will
still be too dear for your feeble re-
sources. Wait for executing this
pious wish until you have more to
spare. I cannot promise you that it
will be a new one, but I will place a
wooden cross on your mother's grave."
Robert, although saddened at the non-
success of his project, felt the wisdom
of the advice wluch was given him.
He resigned it for the present, hoping
that a more prosperous time would
come, when miserable pecuniary con-
siderations need not stop him in the
accomplishment of what he felt wa^ a
filial duty. Then after having thank-
ed the pastor, and told him how grate-
ful he was to him for his paternal care
and loving advice, he asked his per^
mission to pass another night in the
house where he first remembered the
light of day. " Go, my child," said
the cure, moved by his touching reso-
lution, " go if you feel strong enough :
solitude raises the soul and purifies its
approach to the Creator. Sometimes
remember the consoling words of our
divine Saviour, ^Blessed are they
who mourn, for they shall be comfort-
ed.' It is time for you to go. May
€rod in the silence of your solitary
night visit your desolate soul, and
with his paternal hand wipe away
your tears. To-morrow morning I
will see you, and we will arrange
about your affiiirs."

The courageous child, for he was
courageous to put himself face to face
with so many dear remembrances,
wished to visit once more the haunts
of his infant joys, where his mother
had guided his tottering steps, and, la-
ter, where she had explained to him
the wonders of nature in the presence
of these wonders. Tes, he wished to
see them all again, and engrave them
in an inefikceable manner upon liis
memory. They were all dear to his
heart, all filled with thoughts of his
mother, and the most tender caresses
had been exchanged there between
them. He recalled the dreams of those
days wheji his head rested on his
mother's bosom, and he felt himself

°d|II

646

Robert; or, Uu Lijbunee oj

bathed in love and happiness; he re- then

called the charm of that intercourse, well, <

when two hearts are bound in sweet- yallej

est sympathy ; and it was for this pur- the la

pose that he wandered over the moun- when

tain, stopping at each loved spot, un- by m^

til he reached the highest plateau, prote

There he sat down, but not before look- of the

ing around him, for, for the first time you :

in his life, he felt a little timid and ever

frightened. The magic beauty of his I wc

surroundings was not new, he had your

seen it all otlen before, had contem- ])er i

plated it a thousand times, but a sort of mj

of unquiet terror seizes him, and be- now f

trays itself in tears. It seems but a fertiU

day since he bounded and frolicked the d

gay ly in the same pkces, under the eye soon

of his mother, and now what a strange hospi

and sorrowful change ! He is alone ; and n

his strength and courage all gone. He verdi

seems so small and insignificant by the lie si

side of these masses of rocks, so gi- mova

gantic and imposing, which look at tume

him as though they would crush him. involi

Little by little he becomes reassured ; the r

he thinks he hears above him chords cliam

of infinite sweetness ; these ravishing light,

sounds seem to come from the sky ; it the v

is a choir of angels, who chant the it car

notes of some sweet mel<Kly. The at hi:

child is transported with delight : he and i

listens ; his soul is strengthenoJ, he is and

not deceived. From among thase liar- found

monious voices he discovers one well more

known to him, tlie sound of which gethe

makes him happy. He knows it is mode

his mother's, and she calls tenderly to about

him : " RolxTt, what do you believe ? drawt

am I not always with you ? Look, conta

my child, and admire this grand pic* The i

ture, radiant with waves of gold and ive, tl

purple from the declining sun. Look to se

in wonder at what God has done for rank ;

you.*' These words transformed Rob- less ]

crt. Ho is transported with a new cloael

emotion, and, prostrating himself on have

his knees, cries, *• O God ! O Goil ! how whicli

wonderful art thou, how gnmd are the cl

thy works!" At^er he had satisfied He y

his soul with the enchanting scene, doubt

he went to all the spots where he had simpl

sat with his mother, and gave them most

each a long and sorrowful look, and to pre

Boberi; off The £njluenee of a Good JUMer.

647

amioadon being concluded, he said to
bim : ^ My child, I have not found any
porclia8ere for tliis furniture, and may
not ior some lime. I will give you,
however, what J suppose to bo its val-
ue, and if I should get more for it
shall 1>e glad to remit it to you ; by
thus ^oing I will hare time to look
«bout^ and can, perhaps, dispose of it
to more advantage." The poor child
knew not how to reply to this kind-
ness, but he said, ^ All that you have
done is right, my dear father, you are
too good to take so much trouble for
me, and I thank you with all my
heart-" Again the euro closed the
door and took Robert's hand, lie
bant into sobs at the idea of being
separated from all which reminded
lumof his mother, but he begged him
to have courage. " Courage, my child.
1 know you suffer in leaving a spot
•ftcred to your mother's memory ; it is
hot a natural feeling, but you cannot
stay. Leave all to my care, accom-

£>h the wish of your mother, go to
ns, and if the blessing of an old
nan, a blessing which calls down that
rf God. can inspire you with resolu-
tion and confidence in the future, I give
y^ mine, and may it make you ha|>-
P7»* In saying these words he laid
^ bands on the head of the child,
wbo was kneeling before liim.

Bobert passed several days with the
™d father, where he gained strength
^ coaragc ; and one morning at sun-
^1 with a small bundle on his shouU
^ vtd a stick m his hand, set out, ac-
**»panied by the good cure, who had
*Bhed to render less painful by his
Fttence the first steps of this sad
Jyney, He had sent a letter to
*• friend the cure in Paris, in which
J* enclosed the fifty pounds, not thiuk-
?%Jt prudent that Robert should caiTy
^ *ith him. A half league from
we village, on the route to Clermont,
''^ excellent man embraced the cliild,
I'^cd to heaven, and bade him fare-
weBl

CHAPTEB ni.

" We may know bj a child's actloni
If his inoUvea are pure and right."

Protisbs.

As long as it was possible, Robert
followed, with burning eyes, the chari-
table man who had comforted him in
his severe affliction. Several times he
turned to see if the mountain had yet
disappeared, on which he had passed
so many happy day.?. At last tlie
charm was broken, it was no longer
visible, and tears chased each other
down his checks, but he walked on
quickly, saying, *»My mother wishes
it." Ilis mind was so occupied tlmt
he walked on without looking at the
road which ran ahead of his thoughts
and his regrets, until, involuntarily
raising his eyes to the scene before
him, he stops in the extremity of his
surprise ; his eyes refuse to believe
their evidence ; they wander from ob-
ject to object without knowing why,
witiiout being able to explain the
mystery which plunges him into a
sort of stupor, and he believes him-
self under the dominion of a feverish
and fantiistic dream. He raises his
hand to see if he is asleep, but he is
wide awake, and laughs at his simplici-
ty. It is easy for us to understand
this. He recognizes no longer men,
things, or even nature. All that he
lefl behind him was difforent from
what was before and around iiim. He
was in a new world, on strange ground,
and everything which was presented to
his sight caused him an undefinable
sensation. Was there not enough to
surprise him? These large fields,
these plains of vendure, these yellow
harvests, were to him a new spectacle,
strange, singular, sometimes even mo-
notonous to the eye of a little moun-
taineer, liabituated to the fantastic
forms of the rock and the sombre
and imposing verdure of the woods
which covered the sides of his native
mountain. Where are the great heaps
of volcanic rocks among which he had
been reared and which were so famil-
iar to his eyes? All had disappear-

648

Sohert ; or, 7%^ Fhjiumte of a Chod

cd, and it seemed lo him that, wirlmut
transition he had passed from severe
and grand nature lo simple and gay,
rich with flowers and fmitis and corn
white and golden. It was the con-
trast which frightened him, and made
him think he had been transported hy
some invisible hand a thoui^and leagues
from hiM home. Like a biid sliglitlj
wounded which flics to the parcnt
nest and seeks shelter under the
warm wintrs ot* its mat ben so Robert,
resllcsa and inquiet, longs for the ma-
ternal arms in whii!h he can liide his
fears. He t^els his loneliness ; the
road seems lon^^er at every step, and
he cannot see the end of it. He in-
Tokes through his mother tiie bles^ini;
of God, and his fear^ are dissiptited,
and strcn^h and liope are given him
to haflteo on. With the versatility
which is the happy accompaniment
of childhood, he put a sweet security
in place of the most foolish fears.
And now he waa brave again* Tliis
transition of sentiment, this quick
changing of the miist lively sorrow
into a kind of gavetj, h natural to
youth. They have extreaies of joy
and sorrow, and, without lieing pre-
pared for either, we see ihem pass
doddealy from one to tlie other. Haj>
py^ happy childhoo<l! Robert was
now full of a new sentiment, and the
birds fluttered rou»K{ him and sang their
merriest songs ; the long* low murmur
of the insects was delightful to his ear-
Why should he lie sad when all na-
ture was so joyous? A universal
hymn of gratitude and love is being
sung by all lliat exist, by everything
that breathes, in honor of our divine
Creator ; and, no matter how many the
sorrows and desolations of man* calm-
ness comes to his heart, in the sweet
perfume of joy, the suave hiirnK»uy
and gracious gayety that till iaU na-
ture undor the life-giving influence of
a beautiful summer moruing. As we
are all. sooner or later, initiated into the
•offerings of lif^N we must feel for
othere and pour what balm we can
iofo every wounded heart Bobert
walked cm until he came to an inn

where headcod lo fUBfl

fresh, opea imo^ his

the title of Orphmit gpko

the heart and good |
ess. She asked hh
gi>ing and if he
told her, and that U wsa \
wish, and, of c^arAe, if
he should go to Paris, j
morning he started oft
with the caress^ of tliiiM
she was a mother, and J
moisten her cheek,
httle boy take up liii
olultdy pursue his wi^
ed God to take care of !
fell his morher's lotas
fatigue weakened liifl
hunger made him err,
her with the eyes of faill
Yes ; believe me, dear
who have lo«*t your toolt
heaven, and there you
looking ftt you with ejenl
saying to you : *• Be ^
and wh^n yoti are n&V
you, and kiss yoar pure (
fcirelirnds/* Yea ; look
I promise you you will t
ers there, if you aj«
tilts whidi readied
eaeJi day iha
mother aod filled liift^
It etirned always to 1
eueoura^emcnt and i

As he walked oi|J
him QernKmtf Riofi,
and Grannot. Somm
this lie hnd bid goodAif I
ful district of lis
charmed him by ita i
its deep piMfn folii
and fertile phitns, lliis ]
canton ol' France w%
ered worthy oi' a jn
tion, uud il waji of
vergne that Apofla ]
ii 00 bi lal

lliew CI I o it,j

even b >

ting th< ill

It was of this c*7untry,
hcjivcn, thai King Ct
"' tliot betbrc dying be i

RokeH; OTj Hu MJbienee of a Good MMer.

649

id that was to see the beau-
niagne d*Auvergne, which is
sterpiece of nature, and a
' enchantment." We cannot

Robert shared in their opin-
it is certain that he passed it
^t, although he was drawn
range a feeling toward Paris,
!ct of his hopes and his ambi-
Se walked to St. Poun^in,
I, and all the small places,
ted a day when overfatigued.
ras his delight when ho reach-
ainebleau,which royal residence
nessed the first abdication of
leror. All was still in motion
place, and more than one old
twisted his mustache, and
fierce and martial air walked
dge of this great forest, weep-
the liberty of his emperor, his
. idol. It was with delight
• young hero, the child of the
and solitude, sought the fresh
which recalled to him, by a
simihirity, his cherished moun-
me ; and the immense piles
rular rocks attested that this
DO, had been the tlieatre of
Teat convulsion of nature,
day, when the sun sheds his
rays, when the tired flowers

their stems, when the birds
ler the leaves, when all nature
jpose, the better to enjoy the
« of the evening, Robert, too,
I the example, and lay down
}t at the foot of a huge chest-
many centuries old ; the vast
f which formed an impenetra*
IT from the heat of the sun.
>ke refreshed, rose, and ven-
ito one of the long alleys or
> which a sign conducted him.
eral hours he wandered about
his tangled maze and looking
for an opening. But he was
It child, and obstacles did not
a, neither was he discouraged
infruitful efforts ; on the cou-
le redoubled his ardor, and
Bached a clear space, in the
( which was a fountain bor-
f rose-beds. Four paths di-

verged from it, and of such great
length were they that it fatigued the
eye to look at them. In exploring
in turn each of these paths, Robert
found in one of them a sign pointing
out to strangers the various labyrinths
of the forest. He had nothing che
for a guide, but thought if he could
only find his way to the palace again,
there must be some one there who
could tell him how to go ; so he fol-
lowed the path which he thought
might be right, and it was, and led
him into the avenue which wound
round by the palace. When he got
right in front of the principal and only
truly royal edifice of France, or rather
of Napoleon, he stopped and wondered
at the vast aspect of this assemblage
df buildings, [hx)ducing an effect at
once imposing and majestic. Noth-
ing like this had ever entered his im-
agination, and the most lively aston-
ishment shone on his fiice, and his
eyes burned with the fire of intelli-
gence and pleasure. A few steps
i'rom him was an old soldier who
was entirely absorbed in contemplat-
ing the building, and who looked woni
and sad. He, too, was in a sort of
ecstasy, but he gazed in silence and
seemed lost to all around him. His
expression was of one in anguish, and
his eyes rested with a strange fixed-
ness upon the steps of honor. He
waits and watches as if hoping to see
some one whom he ardently loves ap-
pear ; but his hope is deceived, and
two tears trickle slowly down his
dark cheeks, scarred and burned by
the fires of a hundred battles. At
this moment when marks of supreme
sorrow told so eloquently of his suf>
fering<<, Robert turned, and seeing his
tears he was deeply moved at this
testimony of profound sorrow, and,
eagerly approaching the soldier, said
to him in a touching voice : ^* Why do
you cry, sir? Have yon also lost
your mother? I fear you have.'*
Robert had never wept but for one
sorrow, and that we all know, and in
happy ignooance of the other mis-
fortunes of life be thought all wepi

•!i

f''

650

Robert; or, The Influence of

for the same thing ; and in his great whicli

loss he looked to older persons to con- which

sole him, which proved how t**.nder, cnibn

delicate, and generous are the senti- could

nients that live in the hearts oF chil- wlio I

dren. Their young souls are mirrors have

to which we should only give pure, world

chaste, and pious huagcs to reflect still li

and show them good examples, that me w

without effort vice might be crushed his mi

out, and the world left au Eden of there,

purity. I cam

Hearing so touchingly compartsion- what

ate a voice, the old soldier turned arid you a

looked at the child, wliiio tears glisten- you s

ed in his eyes. "No," said he in a mothe

coarse tone, " it is not for my mother " No,'

that I weep, it is for my emperor." you ^

'•And who is it that is your em|)e- friend

ror ?" candidly asked Robert. " Ah I must

you are right to ask, littie boy, you wisli

could not know him ; but did your from

father never speak of the emiwiror?' the ^

**Ala3! I have no fatiier, and have leagu(

just lost my mother," said he sighing, walk f

** Was your emperor good, and did we ar

you love him so mucli that you weep have

for him \ I shall never forget my you, o

mother, she was so sweet and good to will t

her little son. But tell mo, sir, tell movct

me of your emperor. My mother said and w

I should always love those who were walk

good, and I want to love him too." how t

The old fellow twisted his mustache, then 3

and growled some words between his jHjror.

teeth, looking alternately at the palace in he:

and the child, who smiled at him with you k

an exprt?ssion so gentle that it moved he re;

the soldier's heart. You could see he my ci

was the victim of an emotion he vain- are al

ly sought to conceal. ** Wonderful !" once :

cried he, vanquished by the magical tremb

eyes of Robert. *• You are a good child, forbid

anil speak to my heart when you tell sand

me that you love my emperor. But me ; ji

who does not love him, except those I wou

cowaixls ! those stx)undrols ! those ti"ai- not C

tors ! But stop, 1 have said enough." tion v

II«» saw that Robert was a linlc fright- the 01

encd, for his ears hjid only been atHiUS- on th

tomed to the caressing voice of his moth- minle:

er. ** Do you see that staircase ? My bundl

emperor descended by it to embrace the the ol

eagles of his flag, the victorious eagles made

One Hament.

6dl

nej. On the way Robert
liim the history of the twelve
lad passed* on his cherished
with his beloved mother,
pie recital gained him the
endship of his companion,
)ert looked upon as a friend
or him by that kind Provi-

> watches over orphans. He
atlgue of the journey well,
n perfect health when they
lat magnificent chaos called
he old soldier is, then, the
md that God has given our
. And how strange it was
i two poor isolated beings
jet in such a place, before
palace of kings — the one a
isolutc energy, who carriecJ
Id forehead great scars of
who shed tears of despair at

his well-beloved chief, in
had found parents, country,
le other a charming youth,
ng brilliant promises for the
ung, beautiful, and full of

Cyprien Hardy was one of
French hearts to whom the
»atriot was not a vain word,
oved like many others when
breatened the republic and
erful allies audaciously in-
tern tory. He was one of

> take up arms, having en-
irmy as a volunteer at twen-
lome years later he served

in the first regiment of the soldiers of
the guard, after having made the
memorable campaigns of Italy, Egypt,
and Germany, always following the
** Little Corporal," always the first in
battle, and always respected. Dangers
made him smile ; his courage was in-
exhaustible. One thing alone could
move him, and that was the voice of
his chief. This electrified him, and
made him forget all but noble actions.
He had always loved Napoleon, and
this affection increased with the for-
tunes of the great man whose word or
look transformed soldiers into heroes.
It was in the forts of Moscow that his
emperor had given him the *' Cross of
Honor," for a wound which he received
from a cannon ball while waving his
fiag. In this disastrous retreat the
brave soldier, dying wi(h cold, fadgue,
and hunger, preserved his heroic ex-
altation and his confidence in and love
for his emperor ; and if he ever gram-
bled, it was only because he could not
kill every Cossack that he laid his
eyes upon. His courage and energy
never diminished, and he believed so
implicitly in his emperor that he
thought good fortune must return. But
it had gone forever. His heart re-
volted at the thought ; and he swore
that the author of this infamous trea-
son should repent, and this was why
he was going to Paris to see if ho
could find any of his old companions.

TO BK OOKTIHUBO.

ONE MOMENT.

A TKOOPiNO forth of buried griefs like ghosts, —
Temptations gathering swift in serried hosts, —
Of angel guardians a glittering band, —
God watching all — shall we desert or stand?

est

PnUtmi^At.^

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.*

(OOMCLCOnk)

XII.
THE ICTBTEBT OF REDEMPTION.

The next article of the creed, in
order, is that which expresses the Mys-
tery of Redemption : " Crucifixus etiam
pro nobis, sub Pontio Pilato, passus, ct
sepultus est** " Who was also cruci-
fi(Ki for us under Pontius Pilate, who
suffered, and was buried," The re-
demption implies the incarnation, and
is based on it. The incarnation having
been already treated of, in immediate
connection with the Trinity, we have
only to proceed with the exposition of
the doctrine of satisfaction for sin and
restoration to grace through the suffer-
ings and death of the Divine Redeem-
er.

It is no part of the Catholic doctrine
that it was necessary for the second
person of the Trinity to take upon
himself human nature and suffer an in-
finite penalty, in order tliat God might
be able to pardon siu without violating
his justice. All Catholic theologians,
from St. Augustine down, tench that
God is free to show mercy and to par-
don, according to his own good pleas-
ure. The reason and end of the incar-
nation has been sliown already to be
something far above this order of ideas.
The incaniation docs not of itself, how-
ever, imply suffering or death. We
have to inquire, then, why it was that
in point of fact the incarnate Word was
manifested as a suffering Redeemer;
and why his death on the cross was
constituted the meritorious cause of the
remission of sin and restoration of
grace.

The church has never made any

, • E«RATUM : In the last number, p. 624, ?d col.
l»h line, for '* created in sanctUr and Justice *' read
" copitftoted."

formal definition of her

this point, and it is weH

various have been the thee

ing it maintained at diff

We shall endeavor to [we

which appears to ns adeq

telligible; without, howevi

for it any certainty beyonc

reasons on which it is basa

The original gift of grao

been due to Adam, or to

his ordinary descendants, ii

restoration of that gift, wh

not due. Aside from the

there was no imperative

Adam and his race shod

been left in the state to

were reduced by the ori

grcssion. God, having d(

accomplish the incamatioi

man race, owed it to him

plete this determination, in

the sins which h^ foresa

committed by men. The fc

its of Christ furnished an a*

tive for conferring any deg

upon any or all men, he mi^

fitting and necessary for ti

of his eternal purposes.

necessary, however, that the

should sufifer or die in or

grace for mankind. By Ih

cree, indeed, the shedding <

and his death was made

meritorious act in view o(

mission of sins an(f grace ar

But all the acts of his life b:

intrinsic worth and excell<

was simply infinite on ace

divine principle of imputabil

they must be referred. 1

have been some reasons, tl

fitness, on account of whid

termined that Jesus Christ

fer death for the haauui rac

Ptobbmi of tke Age.

65d

nay find one of these reasons
iw of 8ufi«ring and death which
d imposed, out of a motive of
ve, on the whole human race.
N was, indeed, promulgated un-

form of a penalty, but in its
2I& it was a real blessing. The

heaven through the . path of
I and by the gate of death is
and safer way than the one in
idam was first placed ; it is one,
(>rding higher and more exten-
Dpe for virtue, heroism, and
It was, therefore, fittmg that the
ad prince of the human race
50 before his brethren in this

sufferings. '< For it became
' whom are ail things, and by
re all things, who brought many
glory, to perfect, by suffering,
lor of their salvation."* As a
&r consequence of this general
roes, patriots, reformers, pro-
Jid saints, have always been
f exposed to suffering and to
modes of death. They have
liged to sacrifice themselves to
m fidelity to conscience and to
*ed cause to which they have
(voted. And this sacrifice of
consecrated their memories in
rts of their fellow-men more
y other acts of intellectual or
rtae, however brilliant It was
lereforCfthat the Saint of saints,
ioar of the world, should not
bimself from the peril of death,
. the very character of his mis-
oscd him.

ler reason for the suffering of
be Mediator, is found in the
ation thereby made of the love
in Christ to the human race.

no need of dwelling on this,
icing other reasons of a similar
tch have been so frequently
lUy developed by others,
ass on, therefore, to the con-
n of the final and highest
or the death of Jesus Christ,
ition of sin.

ne and only possible notion of
I or satisfaction is that which

apprehends it as a compensation for
the failure to perform some obliga-
tory act, by performing another act of
at least equal value in the place of
iL Every noble soul, when conscious
of having been delinquent, desires to
repair the injury which has been done,
as well as to redeem its own honor,
by some act which shall, if possible,
far exceed the one which it failed to
perform. The same principle impels
those who have a high sense of honor
to make reparation tor the delinquen-
cies of others with whom they are close-
ly related in the same family, the same
society, or the same nation. Now, the
human race has been delinquent in
making a proper return to God for
the infinite boon of grace. The fall
of man and the innumerable sins of the
individuals of the human race have
deprived Almighty Grod of a tribute
of glory which was due to him, and
have brought ignominy upon man-
kind as a race* Although, therefore,
Almighty God might provide for the
glorification of the elect who are to
share with the Incarnate Word in his
divine privileges, by an act of pure
mercy ; it is far more glorious both to
God and man that a superabundant
satisfaction should be made for the
injury which has been done to the
Creator by the marring of his crea-
tion, and a superabundant expiation
accomplished of the disgrace which
man has incurred. It was, therefore,
an act of divine wisdom and love in
God to determine that this satisfac-
tion and expiation should be made by
the second person of the Trinity in
his human nature. The Incarnate
Word, being truly man, identified witli
the human race, and its chief, neces-
sarily made its honor and its disgrace
his own. Although he could redeem
his brethren without any cost to him-
self, his solicitude for their honor and
glory would not permit him to do it.
He desired that they should enter
heaven on the most honorable terms,
without any of the humiliation of the
delinquency of the race attaching to
them, bat, on the oootiaryi with the

654

exulting consciousness that every stain
of dishonor had been €ffiW!cd. There*
foi-e, as their king and chief, he ful-
HUod the most eublime work of obe-
dience to the divine love which was
possible ; he made the most perfect
l>oBgihle oblation to God, as an equiva-
lent for his boon of grace whicli liad
hcm\ abused bv sin. In lieu of that
jrlorj which God would have received
fi*ora the |ierfeet obedience of Adiira
and all his posterity » and that glory
whicli would have been abo reflected
upon the htinian race, he substituted
the infinitely greater glory of hi* own
obedience unto death, even the death
of the cross. By this oh«?dicnco
Jesus Christ merited for the human
race the concession of a new grant
of grace, more perfect than the first,
by virtue of which not only the origi-
nal sin which is common to all men
was made remissible to each imlivid*
ual, but all actual sins were made
also pardonable on certain conditions.

That this statement completely ex-
hausts the true idea of the satisfaction
of Christ, we will not pretend to nf'
ttrm. It appears to us, however, suf-
licie nt to give a clear and deiinile
meaning to the hinginige of Script ui*e
and the fathers, and to include all
tlint Catholic faith requires a Christ-
ian to believe.

Josus Chnst having merited by bis
death the right of conferring grace
without stint or limit upon mankind,
and all the grace given af\er the fall
and before the redemption having
been bestowed in the foresight of
his death, every spiritual blessing en-
joyed by men is referred to the death
of Jesus Christ as its cause and source.
Strictly s^M^aking, it is only the meri-
torious cause. By giving himself up
to die, he merited the right to commu-
nicate the grace contained in the in*
carnation to men, notwithstanding the
failure of the father and head of tlie
race to fultil the probation on which
the transmission of the grace to his
descendants depended. He merited
also the right to renew this grace in
those individuals who should lose it

af\cr havliig ooee
as he pleaM^d, wilfaom rc^
number or grievoafloeM of i
or the frequt^cy of their I
is, however, the Holy 8pUtt
in tlie Incarnate Word in
tude of his bt.'ing, and eomti
to his human nature the
grace, not for itftclf alone, h
men i which is tli
cient cause of n
is the grace of tli
actually r^iraovT*'?
sin from the
the state of ji
Holy Spirit i re, the

cause of juh Th

cause is the per.4onal ?:
individuah That U d^
tity is that whi( i
worthy of the cuiM,.,.,^
of fellowship with hiin,
lasting life. The work of tl
nation and redemption most,
produce its p '
summation t^
as the sane tiller ut tlic h\
Consequently, tbe creed,
i&hing its expre^sinti of
faith so far as th«* permoti
coneemed, proceed*
regards the person
the Holy Spitrit, who
to complete his
containing this enuncSatld
the creedp and bring
destination.

Tire CXTIIOUt

MKNT OK TLi I

xrrscAX kack

The f«- ^td

etv;

piH> *

ador.iiuf ei iH^ugloiiiieatQrv^
est (H*r prophet»A; el im
Caiholieam et
eontiieorumtml
peccatorum/* " And ia j
Ghost, tlie Lord and 1
ceedeth frcim tlue Pother

ProhkjM of the A^.

655

iL the Father and the Son to-
\ worshipped and glorified, who
f the prophets; I confess one

for the remission of sins."
relation of the Holy Spirit to
her and the Son in the Tnnity
en already considered. The
al mission of the Holy Spirit
ODSummationof the divine work
'ra is exercised through the
c Church; and, therefore, the
concerning the church follows
lately in the creed the one con-
; the Holy Spirit.*

organic unity of the Catholic

I follows necessarily from the

les laid down in the foregoing

It is an immediate conse-

of the unity of the race, and

incarnation, which are two
facts, but which have one
le. The order of regeneration
jDow the order of generation.
)d exist essentially as a race;
ice they received the original
supernatural grace ; as a race
3t it All human life and de-
ent is generic The redemp-

mankind must, therefore, re-
h the generic relations which
listurbed by the fall. Jesus

the second Adam, must be-
iie head of a redeemed and
uted race of men, organized in
matural society. Continuity
irpetuity of life are, theVefore,
ential notes of the divine so-
>r human race regenerated, in
true spiritual life is communi-
) the individual. The sole pos-

of these notes demonstrates
ine authority of the Catholic
i.f The continuity of life, em-
; integrity of doctrine and law
e faculty of conferring grace,
led from the patriarchal church
1 the Jewish, with the incre-
idded by the immediate inter-
i of the divine Lord of the
Q person, to the Catholic Church.

Archbishop Mannlng'i Temporal Hlsdon

4jOhost

Leo, Unlr. Hlit, toL L Lacordalre*! Coo-

iDd the Work! of Dr. Browoioo, jKMtifM.

The Catholic Church is, therefore,
the human race, in the highest sense.
In early times, one nation afler an-
other broke away from the unity of
the race, carrying a fragment of the
integral, ideal humanity with it. In-
tegrity, continuity, and perpetuity of
life were, therefore, rendered for them
impossible. The same phenomena
are exhibited at the present time in
all nations and societies outside of the
Catholic Church. Partial and tem-
porary developments only can bo
made of that integral, universal, per-
petual life, whose seat is in the bosom
of the church, and which is sufficient
to vivify the whole human race, if
the impediments were removed. The
proof, a posteriorly or by induction, of
the Catholic Church, must be sought
for in those works which treat pro-
fessedly of the subject. Our object is
merely to show the conformity of the
idea of the Catholic Church with the
idea of reason, by deduction from pri-
mary, ontological principles. The at-
tributes of the church follow so im-
mediately from its primary note, as
the human race restored to unity in
the fellowship of God in Christ, that
they require no special elucidation ;
especially as this particular branch of
theology has been so repeatedly and
so amply treated by authors.

In regard to special dogmas of the
church, most of those which present
any great difficulty to the understand-
ing have already been discussed in
the former part of this essay ; and the
remainder find an easy explication
from the same principles.

The doctrine of the sacraments is
explicated from the principle that the
church is the instrument of sanctifica-
tion. The sacraments are the particu-
lar acts by which the church com-
municates the spiritual vitality which
resides in her to individuals. They
have an outward, sensible form, be-
cause the nature of man is corporeal,
and all human acts are composed of
a synthesis of the sensible and the
spiritual. They contain an inward,
spiiitoal grace, beoause the nature of

65i

PrMemM t»f tl^ Af9,

man is epintual, and irceives life only
from a spiritual principle. The only
one of X\\^. sacraments whicb presenU
any special difficulty to the nnderstanJ*
ing i« the holy euL-harist ; on account
of »hc mystery of transuhslantialion
which 18 included in it^ essence. The
grroiind of this ditficnhy, which lies in
cnidc, philosophical notiotis, and is*
there tore, purely a spectre of llie im-
agination, has been already removed
by the doctrine we haTe laid down re-
pp cell ng the nature of substance and
I he proper conception of space and
extension. The senses tranninit to
the Roul nothing more than the im-
press ionii of the phenomena, tvhich
the iioul, by an intellectual jad^^ment^
refei*ii to a real, intelligible substance,
or active foi*ce^ as their produciivc
cause. The substance itaelf is not
seastblcH, but iutelligiblc ; \% not seen as
un e^iscnce by the eye, but concluded by
a judi^ment of the mind. By divine
i*evelation it is disclosed to n«t that the
substance of bread and wine ia the
inicharist u succeeded by the sub-
stance of tlic body and blood of Jesus
Christ; the phenomena or sensible ef-
fects of the former substance still con*
tinning to be produced in an extraor-
dinary maoner. There is a mystery
here it is true; but it is only the my»-
tt^rv which belongs to the inscrutable
nature of tlie eiisence of matter as ac-
tive tbrcc, and the mode in which ttirs
active force prcxluces varions senisible
jihenomcna. The definitions of the
church do not furnish a complete ex-
planation of the Cut ho he dogma,
which is letY to theologians; and even
iheoloojians do not precisely coincide
in thsir concept ions or cx|»res«ioni?.
All we can do then, after stating the
Catholic dogma, is to give the explana-
tion which appears to he the moat prob-
able, uc*corrling io the judgment of the
best authors and the most weighty
intrinieic reasons. This is enough, how
ever, for our purpose j for all that is
requireti ts to funiish a conception
which is, on the one band, tbeologically
t©?lablr^ and, on the other, nUioiaAl^iQ-
IclJigible.

Wo may tqMumtQ
judgment pronaonecd
in the detinilion of the!
four analytic jodgQie&i
absence of the
wine after the consi
tlie p rest! nee of tha
body of Chriiit. Tbi
of Uie tiatuml pb
of CUHftL f rh<T

the aatttral \ nn, i

wine» In ordi-r lo r*
n»ents of the ehtirch*ii
meat irilo a marts
is necessary to analyze
separate propo^ihiotui.
principal, distittet coci<
ed in them : the coaeei
stance ; the • i oi

relation in ^| i

of phimomeniu ui% lu u
terra employed by Uie
atcidftnU. Tljcrc ia, •
tion of the mode itt
nomena of bread and wi
oi* relation to their pni]
substances, or, the
immediate^ eflirient cat
they must be n*fem*<l,
tlwx'e conceptions have
ly unaljze<i in a former
treatise. Thts a»
stance of bread ;
cration may be %%\i
anee with the coi
by auuihiliition. i^i
lioa vritb the subdtunce
Christ, The senae»
ni&anee of its p
cration, fhelr

report [ ia;

scqucntiv, tnke cognixa
Pence. They are not,
ccivctl in rej^»orting the
nnchangi^d after the
they really nstnaiit tii
the uiitid qualified
tha report uf tlie
stance b onehangedt
judgnsejit $ Kince tli4
would ■' - - - bo]
supetBr Uri

koowa innHj;^:i
iaalADCO llie

J^robbmi of the Ag$.

657

i for another by the creative
of God. The simplest mode
teiYing the effect of consecra-

the substances of the bread
le is to suppose their annihila-
St. Thomas, however, denies
ey are annihilated, because the
IS of annihilation is nothing,
I the terminus of the act of
stantiation is the body of Christ,
n words, the argument is : if
stances were annihilated, the ef-
onsecration would be properly
ed by saying that they arc re-
to nothing, whereas the lan-
)f the church is, that they are
id into the body and blood of

The same argument applies
notion of their removal else-

Nevertheless, sinc^ they are
Nwed to be annihilated or re*
simply for the sake of getting
lem, and their destruction or

is not the end or final term
let of divine power, but only
imate term, in order to the
ion of the body if Christ, this
It is not decisive. It is prop-
f that the substance of bread
ed into the body of Christ, if
y of Christ is substituted for
natural phenomena which for-
adicated the presence of the
•stance remaining the same,
icating the presence of the
bstance instead of that of the
ubstance. .

ler explanation is based on the
f one generic substance indi-
3d in all distinct, material ez-
Acoording to this explana-
bread and wine, being depriv-
leir individual existence, are
iby destroyed; but, as it were,
rn into the generic substance,
I identical with the substance
dized in the body of Christ ;
efore properly said to be con-
Ato the substance of his body,
unable to understand how the
o which this explanation is
bich appears to require us to
the realism of William de
inx and the schoolmen, can be

VOL IV. A%

made intelligible; and, therefore, prefer
the former, which, we believe, is the
one more commonly adopted.

The presence of the body of Christ,
without its natural phenomena, and
under the phenomena of bread and
wine ; which presents usually much the
greatest difficulty to the understand-
ing ; is really capable of a much more
easy and certain explanation. It is
present not by its extension, but by its
pure substance, or vis activa^ that is, aa
Perrone says, per modum spiritAs, af-^
ter the manner of spirit Spirit, as
all Catholic philosophers teach, is re-
lated to objects in space, by the appli-
cation of its intrinsic force to them.
The presence of the body of Christ in
the eucharist is, therefore, the applica-
tion of its VIS activa ; which is, indeed,
finite, but, by virtue of its supreme ex-
cellence in the created order, through
the hypostatic union, commensurate
with the whole created universe and
all its particular parts. The body of
Christ, therefore, while it is circum-
scribed as to its extension; and, ac-
cording to the ordinary sense of the*
word, is present only in one place ; is,,
in a different but real sense, present
everywhere where the species of the
eucharist are present These speciefr
or phenomena of bread and wine in
the eucharist, are the signs indicating'
its presence by its substantial force or
vis activn. They may be produced, as.
every one will admit they can be, by
the immediate act of €rod ; or, by ih&
vis activa of the body of Christ ; which,,
as a perfect body containing eminently
all the perfection of inferior material
substances, can produce their proper
effects. The body and blood of Christ
contain substantially and essentially the*
virtue of bread and wine, and, being
in hypostatic union with the divine na-
ture, may be capable of producing the
phenomena and effects proceeding nat-
urally from this virtue in many j^aoes
at once. It appears to us more in ac-
cordance with the language of Scrip-
ture and the church to make this lat-
ter supposition. We sum up, there -
fore, the explanation of the m/stery

FrpUmm c/d^J^

which appears to us the mo* I proba-
ble and mtional, in this abort fortnula*
By the effect of the divint? power, ex-
etrised through tlje act of conaecrat*
ing the eticharist; the sensible phe-
nomena, indicating before the act the
presence of the m 6w?(*m of bread and
wine^ cease to indicate it ; and indi-
CAtCj instead of it, the presence of the
mi acttva of the body and blood
of Clirist, The language of the defi-
nition pronounced by the church is
thus exactly verified. There ia a
change of substance, without any
change of phenomena. There ia a
transition of the substance of tho bread
and wine; which ceases either alto-
gether as a distinct existence, or, at
least, as the cause of the phenomena j
in order to give way to the substance
of the body of Christ ; which is prop-
erly called a transubstantiation.

The mystery slilt remains, and must
remain, incomprehensible by the humiin
understanding, however clear the ex-
plan.ition of the difficulties which beset
it may l^e made. Neither the senses
nor the intellect can perceive the pres-
ence of Jesus Cbrist in the eucharisL
It is believed by an act of faith in the
word of Jesus Christ. The mode of
this substantial presence and of its ac*
lion on the soul is^raoreover. but dimly
apprehended ; becnuse substanoe itself,
as a VIS activcLf and the mode of its ac-
tivity, are impenetrable to reason. The
rational argument reapecling tlie dog-
ma of faith, therefore, merely proves
that it is not contrary to reason ; and
that it IS partially intelligible by anal-
4)gy with other known truths and facta*
We thus understand that the presence
•of Jesus Christ in the species of the
eacharist is po$$ihle^ And, the revela-
tion of its reality once made^ we seo
also its 6tness. It is most fitting and
congruous that Jesus Christ should
unite himself in the most perfect man-
ner which is consistenj with the condi-
tion of man in this life, with his human
brethren ; and that this union should be
manifested to the senses. This is ao-
430fnplished in the eacharist in sucb a
way that the in telle ct, the imagination.

or the hmrt of inazi,
or desire anjthiog oior* j
mi ruble.*

We shall simply r ^
est brevity^ tlic r-
whose cun&idersUion loUa
present head.

The absolute ne^
works worthy of c '
inability of m? tm

his natural stn^!
supematur
already gi'<

The mi 1
ed by the dj .
the distinction bctweea
merit and the merits of (
as theit mutual relation
is obvious from the rxposi)
has been made of the tatt4^«j

The Catholic doetrinej
Blessed Vit^n and th
plained bj the
down of the glorifiGaJloit ]
of humaii iiaCaro
tion.

The whole exterior i
of Catholif' worship ia ci
dn sensible tluii

Ti [ J ions of the

of the essentially corpor
of man. Tliese, and all^
ulars of Catholic Joctrino, i
ed in the univtfrsal or Cat|
which shines by its own
proves itself by it^ sublii
symmetry, and corresp
the analogioa of the

xir.

THB mf Ai^ tiBfrmATiDsr or
mkn; ooarDmoM or Tin

KKATfi IN TILE rCTTUIUit
NITT OP THK rKXALTTJ
STATE OF FINAL JllUt

The cbsing artldoi <
arc : '* Exiiecto resor
orum et vitam veniuri
*^ I look for tltc r9»u
dead« and tlic life of tlie
Amen."

• VldA f. Dttlgilnu*
olou for ft mon eoinpifte i
of •ttMAOOi sad to^Ml

DrMmti ofiktAgt,

659

Thns, the creation, which proceeds
from God as first cause, is shown to
liave returned to him as final cause.
This is especially accomplished in the
beatification of the elect ; and conse-
qnently it is the glory and blessedness
of heayen which is immediately and
explicitly affirmed in the creed. The
entire creed, however, implies, what
die Catholic church in her exposition
of the creed teaches dogmatically, that
Qidy a portion of the angelic hierarchy
end the human race attain heaven.
ne doctrine of hell, or the place and
state of those who are excluded from
heaveii, is, therefore, the necessary cor-
rdete of the doctrine of heaven. So
fiv aa the human race is concerned, we
here to consider, first, what is the con-
diftioo in eternity of those who are sub-
ject to the consequences of original ein

; fellows from the doctrine already
down, namely, that the state to
wiiieh man is reduced by original sin,
ii entitively the same with that in
whidi consists the state of pure nature ;
tbaft the condition of this class of hu-
■ea beings in eternity is the same that
Ik would be if they had never been con-
stftnted in the order of the supemat-
waL They are destitute of supemat-
■nl beatitude, but attain to all the fe-
BcUj of which they are capable in the
Datoral order. They are elevated in
the dne coarse of nature to that integ-
litr and perfection of soul and body
winch, in the case of Adam, was antici-
pated by a gratuitous gift. Their fe-
ViaXy consists in a perfect exemption
from an liaUlity to sin, in the complete
evdation of their natural capacities,
and in the possession of the proper ob-
ject of theu: intelligence and will, that
iiy in the knowledge and fruition of the
weKkiTof God, and of God himself by
abHiaetive contemplation. This last
espression needs some explaiiation in .
rader to show its conformity with the
doctrine we have laid down at the be-
ginning of these essays respecting the
primitive intuitioD of reason. We have
there afllrmed that the original intuition
of reason is the intoition of that idea

which is afterward demonstrated by
refiection to be identical with the being
of God. Some, rejecting thid doctrine
of Uie idea, object to it that it leads to
a confusion of the act of intelligence
constitutive of rational nature with the
act proper only to beatified nature, that
is, the intuitive vision of God. Others,
who accept it, endeavor to rebut this
objection, ai^d to show the distinction
between the knowledge of God deriv-
ed from rational intuition and that
which is communicated by the light of
glory. But in doing this they make
the first to be only the inchoation of
the second, and the second the comple-
tion or full evolution of the first. It
would follow, then, that a rational crea-
ture cannot attain to the proper object
of his intelligence and will, consequent-
ly cannot attain perfect felicity, with-
out the beatific vision. We cannot ad-
mit either that the objection is a valid
one or that the explanation which is
made in order to do away with it is
sufficient. We venture, therefore, to
suggest another.

It is real and concrete being, not
possible and abstract being, which is
the intelligible object of reason. Rea-
son, however, does not, by an intrinsic,
perceptive power, actively elicit the
intuition of its intelligible object. In
other words, it is not by its virtue as
intelligence that real being, or Ihe
intelligible, becomes inteUigiblo to it.
The intelligible has the precedence
and the superiority in the act of intel-
ligence. The presence of the object
makes the subject intelligent in the
first act, and this first act ia one in which
the creative spirit is the agent and the
created spirit the terminus of the act^
The original, immediate contact of the
intellect with real, concrete being, that
is, with God, is, therefore, a contact in
which the soul is passive, because this
contact precedes and is the cause of
its activity. It is only by reflection,
or bending backward upon itself, that
the intellect can have distinct self-con-
sciousness and elicit thought When
it does so, it takes always the affirma-
tion of real, necessary being, by which

660

Bfxtitmi of the A^

God created it ralional, as the first active in

and absolute elemijDt of its thoughts, limited

But this af&rmation, as soon aa it en- diate te

ters into reflection, and bccomea an finite ria

element of the spontaneoua activity of mediateljl

the soulf becomes ahtract. It is not are refi«

a pure Abstraction, or an act which things, i

lerrai nates on the abstract or posdi- templalio

ble as its ultimate object* but an ab- ive. Th

straclion formed from the concrete spiritJ ifl

object as apprehended by the pas- when the

sivc intelligence, or an abstract con- ercise dt \

ception of the concrete idea. It of action m

would require too much lime to de- It is the

velop this statement fully* But it is through hii
plain at a single glance that it is jus- We non

tificd by the facta of consciousness. Catholics

All our judgments respecting necessary that this

and universal truth are abstract* The ble withe

judgment respecting necessary cause, ly cone

chat respecting tlie infinite and the sin only,

eternal, that respecting ideal space that any M

and time, those which respect mathe* attain^ coi|

matical relations^ and those which form as llahlofl

tlie data of logic, are all of thb kind, of originan

There is no direct, immediate intuition ed by tboi

of God as the infinite, concrete, person- them for|

al tnith, to be found in our conscious* made tlm

ness ; as we have previously proved less it

in oiir demonstration of the being of enjoy it|

God. The necessity of using tlie term treatise ^

intuition in reference to our appre- tury by ]

hension of the idea i^S therefore, an tin- of the do

fortunate one, and gives rise to a con- very the

fusion of the act in which we conclude ions of thee
the existence and attributes of Grod ^Jo8e|]

by a rational, deductive judgment, with merates i

the act in which the soul immediately of iofanfl

beholds him by an intellectual vision, name wl

Intuition and vision arc, strictly speak* certain

ingjdeniical. Experience teaches us beatitudo

that our first distinct vision is the (of St.

vision of sensible objects, and tbat we ehildi-en

refer constantly to this as the standard greater jd^

of clear vision, since there is nothing sinners ba

which appears to us e^^ually clear and goods in tl

distinct. By the aid of our perception acconling U

of the Beneible, we attain to the per- they will \

ception of ourselves as existing, think- would lie

ing spirit, and of other spirits like our present wo

own. But we never attain a similar way sp

intuition of God by the mere exercise Bugnave
of our intellective activity. It is of
the essence of a created spirit that its

J^xObmi of Ae Age.

661

Conieliu3 a Lapide, who all
t children dying without bap-
1 a happier life than those
living on the earth. Lessius
at although they maj be said
mned because eternally de-
the celestial glory for which
c created, it is nevertheless
that their state is far happier
joyful than that of any mor-
in this life. Sahneron says,
Idren will rise again through
id above this natural order,
ey will daily advance in the
e of the works of God and of
substances, toiU have angelic
I will be like our rustics living
antry, so that as they are in
1 between glory and punish-
y will also occupy an inter-
place. Suarez says, that
(vill remain in their natural

I will be content with their
together with Marsilius as

Y AzoTy he ascribes to them
Ige and love of God above aU
id the other natural virtues.
Ruiz,, a theologian of exten-
ng,lays down this conclusion :
ircy will be mingled with the
nt of infants dying in original
igh not in diminution of the
nt of loss, since that is in-
f diminution ; yet in the re-
f death which was the pun-
iirectly^due to original sin,
Id naturally have endured
7, so that in spite of this

II be resuscitated at the day
nt nevermore to die, endowed
imatural incorruptibility and
ity, and they will also super-
receive accidental, infused

and will be liberated from
adness, sickness, temptations,
»nal sins, which are naturally
rise from original sin. Con-
, they are liberated from the
nt of hell which they might
irred. Albert (the Great),
r (de Hales), and St
agree with this doctrine,
lows that these children ob-
3 benefit, in a certain way,

from the merits of Christ ; and says
that it pertains to the glory of Christ
that he should be adored and acknow-
ledged as prince and supreme judge
on the day of universal judgment even
by infants who died without grace. He
also considers it more probable that
they will understand that they have
done neither good nor evil, and there-
fore receive neither glory not pain of
sense, and also that they are deprived
of glory on account of sin (that is,
original). He adds the reason of this,
to wit, that they may understand the
benefit which they received, first in
Adam and afterward in Chrbt, and on
this account may worship and adore
him. Martinonus adds: when even
the demons love Grod in a certain waj
even more than themselves as the com-
mon good of all, according to St
Thomas, why shall not these children
love Christ as their benefactor and
the author of their resurrection, and
of the benefits which they receive with
it through Christ, who is the destroyer
of corporeal as well as spiritual death ?
He cites also what Suarez says, that
although one who should speak of the
bodies of infants in the same way as
of the other damned would say nothing
improbable, since St. Thomas speaks
of all indifferently, nevertheless since
those bodies will have a greater per-
fection and some gifls or benefits which
are not at all due to nature, therefore,
in regard to these gifts, Christ may be
said to be their model. The same
Martinonus subjoins: although those
words of the apostle, "• In Christ all
shall be made alive,** Suarez af-
firms, must be properly and princi-
pally understood of the predestbied,
nevertheless Ihey can probably be ap-
plied to a certain extent to these chil-
dren, inasmuch as they will have in
their risen bodies a certain special
conformity and relation to Christ,
which will be much less and more
imperfect in the damned than in the
predestined. IHcholas de Lyra af-
firms that ^ infants dying without bap-
tism do not endure any sensible pun-
ishment, but have a more defightful

662

PrabUms of tha A^.

Iifo than can be had in thia pr^cnt
HfCi (sccording to all t/ie doctors ^^ who
speak concerning those who dte in orig*
inal sin alonc.^

ThoAe who die in actual sin, and
the fallen angcbt, although in Ihe
Aumc elate of existence with those
who die in original gin or*ly, ihat is,
in the Inferntira, or sphere below the
supernatnral sphere of the elect an-
gelB and men, have to nndergo a
punishment corresponding to their in-
dividual demeritB. Thia truth, which
is clearly revealed in the Holy Scrip-
tures and defined by the churchy is
confirmed by tlie analogies of thig
present life. The transgre&aiou of
law is punished in this world in ac-
cordance with the sense of ju8tice
which is universal among" men,'
There \s no reaiion, therefore, for
Bupposing that the same principle of
i^trihution is not continued in the
future life. Moreover, there 13 posi-
tive proof from reason that it must
continue. There baa never been a
more absurd doctrine broached than
that of the Univeraalists. To aup-
p<>se that all men are saved on ac-
count of the merits of Cbristt without
regard to their moral state or personal
mentSt is most unreasonable ; and sub-
^ ersive of I he moral order as well aa
destructive of the idea of a state of
probation- It is equally absurd to
imagine that the mere fact of death
can make any change in the state of
the soul, or that separation from the
body causes the soul to make a me*
ohanical rebound from a state of &in
to a state of holiness* The soul cad
be made happy only from its own in-
trinsic principles, and not by a mere
arbitrary appointment of God, or a
bestowal of extrinsic means of enjoy-
ment. Sin brings its own punish*
ment, and the state of sin is in itaelf
ft Ktate of misery. * Plato and otlier
heathen sages taught the doctrine of
fiiture punishment, Mr, Alger» who
has writ ton the most elaborate work
on the subject of the history of the

thli'^

doctrine of a ftitme lilb whidh I
peared in recent times^ has fully [
ed the universality of the doctnae (t
future punishment. Other ^ ^
istic writers of ability have
late ycfin seen the imp
moving tliis doetriiie from
ing of Christianity and ftno
tradition, W© hsre
proved lhat Qod does doI dejsrife^l
of his rational creatures €€ dm[
which is proper to their tiatm
own act. It follows from
is the creature himself who fi t^ j
thor of his own misery. Exi
in itself ji good, a boon c^nccilod Ami
love by the Cnf-ator, So fai* ai llii
good h turned into an cTit it ti lyi
voluntary perversion of the gift of i
benevolent sovereign by die wxAj/ai
himself. The punishment wbidi be
must undergo in eternity is, thcfdbfti
the neeessary ociateqtieBoe of Ins oin
acts, together with audi possdre po^
altiea as are require by ihe tttdi «f
justice and the universal goad. Hi
doctrine^ which Is the do^riiw ^ llw
Catholic Church, based oo tbe dov fi^
dence of Scripture and eodaaMlW
tradition,* is also the doetrhio of <fta^
unbiassed reasoni and of tho (MNram
sense of mankind. The prolsUtaW
the angek having been finisM irii
their first trial, and tlie prdlNMMO if
men ending for individmli al itA
and for 1 genencaOy ct iki

day of 1 , the epodi of j

is cl<3«ed iar ever With tbo
of tliic3 present cycle oif pnmdMlt^
and coD.^oqueuLly the ateto of il
angels and men is fixed for el«Dl|^
Hell is, therefore^ an otennil iiiii fk
of which tliere la no
transition into beavefi*

Heaven, or life ever
eternal state of suprenao^ m|
beatitude, to which the oleel aiigobi
men we ele%nited by the gmoeof Gs^
and in which they partictpttlo T

I ij

•figOlltfP

oeofGii

* tlilt y true oT lh« fre«t ou^orltj, bul boI of §n, jfia^bmmUL

• U U BMP «9MU«r«4 Vr Ite kiA i

irbo li«v« b«ea «o «fl«ii cllwl l^f lk« alvwflM tf ito
dodrlM tH tfaltvnsl «yT«ctM, tfM mm I

t«o»Kfj »9 v^ CMa«iii iiiiiim i

PrMmi ofiheAft.

id and ddfic state of the Incar-
ford, through an ineffable fel«
p with the three persons of the
d Trinitj.

I being integrally composed bj
ion of soul and body, and his
sal nature being hypostaticallj
with the divine nature in the
of the Word, the resurrection
body must necessarily precede
oplete glorification. The only
ty which the doctrine of the
iction of the body presents to
ierstanding relates to the princi-
dentity between the earthly and
sstial body. This principle of
r, or unity and continuity of life,
s the same with that wluch oon-
the unity of the body in all
ges of its natural growth ; and
1 all the changes of its material
», from the instant of its con-
to its disintegration by death,
e soul which is the form of the
its vivifying principle. The
kd body have an innate corre-
ice wiUi each other, not only in
eric sense, but in the sense of
ividual aptitude of each sepa-
ul for its own body, and each
e body for its own souL The
d body act and react upon each
lerpetually while the develop-
f both is going on, producing
ific type in each individual
s a modification of the generic
manhood. The determination
ictive force of the soul to the
ion of this type remains with
the separation from the body,
resurrection, it forms anew its
t>per body in accordance with
le which is the product of the
t action of the soul and body
the earthly life. There is,
«, the same continuity and
between the earthly body and
stial body tha( there is between
y of the embryo and that of the
wn man. The celestial body
tame that it would have been
had been no death intervening
I the two corporeal states, but
rcmaticm of the earthly hodj

into the celestial perfection and glori-
fication of its proper type. If this is
not all which is included in the defini-
tion of the church respecting the iden«
tity of the body in the two states, we
must believe, in addition to what has
been stated already, that there is a
material monad which forms the nu-
cleus of ,the corporeal organixlUion
and is a physical principle of identity.
This physical principle must contain
virtually the whole body, as the germ
does the plant ; it must be preserved
when. the body is disintegrated; and
reunited to the soul at the resurrec-
tion, in order to become the physical
germ from which the celestial body
is developed.

The natural beatitude of the glori*
fied angels and saints, which is only
a more exalted grade of that felicitv
which is accorded to the inferior intel-
ligent creation, need not be specially
noticed. It is the essential and su-
preme beatitude consisting in the clear,
intuitive vision of God, which is the
principal subject of the divine revela-
tion proposed by the creed as the ob-
ject of faith.

The possibility of this divine vision
will not be called in question by
any who are properly speaking the-
ists and rationalists, and with others
we have nothing to do at present
Much less will it be questioned by
any class of believers in the divine
inspiration of the Scriptures. We
have not, then, the task of laboring to
show the intrinsic reasonableness and
credibility of the doctrine, but merely
of setting forth that which can be
made intelligible respecting the re&k
tion between our present state in which
we are unable to see God^ and the fu-
ture state in which we may he enabled
to see him. The examination of this
relation includes that of the means
and method by which the soul is ele-
vated to an immediate intuition of that
which constitutes the divine essence
and personality. It requires a state-
ment which shall show what is the
nexus between the act which consti-
tutes the soul in the power to exer^

I¥oKemt of tke Jge.

ich God has the eternal, ne-
itelligence of himself. The
Tit must first be constituted a
tclligent subject, before it can
) of a supernatural illumina-
must be extrinsicated from
e a distinct, thinking sub-
1 constituted in its own finite,
jtivity ; before there can be
% or really existing, active
which God can concur ; with
can unite himself, and to
;an communicate the power
back upon himself by a dis-
ion. The created spirit must
re, in a certain sense, self-
or containing in itself its own
inciple. It must have its own
slf-consciousness as a think-
nce, containing within itself
essary principles of thought
»ry, the universal, the eter-
a word, the idea, cannot be
n a created spirit in its con-
, but only in an abstract form,
or a created word. This is
ith the intelligence itself; it is
itutes its intellective force
>le of activity. In man, as
Iready seen, this intellective
eds the concurrence of ex-
sible objects, acting on it
3 senses and occasioning per-
id refiections, before it can
net reflective consciousness
id evolve its own ideal for-
lis reflective consciousness
lack of the soul itself, where
abstractive idea passively
rom concrete being. The
being, or of God who is
;, gives the apprehension of
e soul by creating it The
;t, and the being who pro-
Teative act, are unperceived
, and lie back of its exist-
i is the terminus of the crea-
The soul's separate activity
le terminus of God's actiy-
>rojected forward to its own
linus. Its natural activi^
ir bring it face to face with
, Gk)d, or enable it to con-
im in any other way than

it is now able to do so, by l^^-fri^,ap- ^* S
prehended demonstration of tew^'-*^^-
from its own first principles and tl>%
terior works of his hand. In order
that the soul, in its reflexive acts, may
see God continually and clearly, it is
necessary that be should unite himself
in a new and inefiable manner to its
substance and its faculties, and concur
with them in such a way that they can
look beyond their natural limit of vision
into the infinitude of the being of Grod
which surrounds the creation like an
ocean on every side. The soul, which
is, so to speak, projected from Grod by
creation, must receive a movement <k
return, which does not arrest itself at
the mere fact of self-consciousness, but
brings the soul to a consciousness
of God as immediately and personally
producing its self-consciousness. This
act is most perfect in the human soul
of Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word.
The personality of the human and di-
vine natures in him being one, there is
but one Ego. The human soid, there-
fore, terminates its act of self-conscious-
ness, not upon itself, as its own suhsUU
entiaj but upon the divine Ego or per-
son. It is conscious of itself as a dis-
tinct substance, but not a substance
completed and brought to distinct sub-
sistence in itself. Its consciousness
terminates in the divine person, and is
referred to it, so that Jesus Christ, in
every human act,afirms himself by
self-consciousness as both Grod and
man in one person. The union of
glorified spirits to God is similar to
this hypostatic union, though not so
perfect, and not implying personal iden-
tity. The nature and mode of this
union of the created spirit with God,
by which it is glorified, beatified, and
even deified — as the doctors of the
church fear not to affirm, in accordance
with the declaration of the Holy Scrip-
ture — is impenetrable to the human un-
derstanding. The Indian philosophers,
having retained a confused idoa of it
from the primitive revelation, have ex-
pressed this idea in their sublime mys»
tidsm with all the superb imageiy of
thehr toxuriant iBttafflnations. With

vnvi

if^ Aunf$ Work-Boac

iheukf it ifi an abfiorplioa of aUindi?td*
ital Boub in the in^oite fount of being.
Nearly all their langaage maj, bow-
ver, be adopted, in a good sense, as ex-
pt essing ihe Chmlian dogma, if clear,
jjhilosophical conceptions are substitu-
ted for their obscure and unscientific no-
lionjs of the creative act Without these
clear conceptions and definiiions, it ia
impossible to escape running into pan-
lht.'idm. The language of Christian
mystic writers^ even, is liable to mis-
apprehension as eitpressing the panllie-
istic notion of the identity of God and
rbe creature, unless their terras are
properly explained. In point of fact,
Eckhart did give expression to some
propositions which irapbed pantheism
and were condemned by the Holy See.
The mystic writers cootinually affirm
Uiat the soul ia mada una res cum Dbo^

and becomes Ood hy
this, bo\^*' *•• **'ry d«i not
the sou I dtstifid m

becomes huh fined wiili CJw cfirif]
tore. They intend to aigalfy an t
ble union betwceo ibemi madQ
which, each irmatniiig
own proper cKseiMsepGoi
his own knowledge, lanelilftglaij
beatitude to the noul ; aji4
into the fellowship of the Bkaaed ^
ity. This is the vanisHhig poial «
theology, and of all adfoes^ ^
which even the moett illuminottl
cafuiot t>enetrate. The n*liiJii «
things which proceed from Qm
fiml catiae to God a» iinal
summatcd ha this beatifle
all the problemt of tkoct
mains only the problaiii of
which etcnilcy aIoo6

MY Am^rS WORK-BOX,

ScRF^t such a mess was never seen

Of white and brown and black and green I

Not Noah's ark, Pandora's box«

Such dire confusion e*er displayed*
Here's wool, shorn from the fleecy 0ock -

Tliat o'er Circubled, for
since I have been Pope the principal
aim of my pontificate has been the pa-
cification of Christianity, so as to unite
and direct all our forces in a crusade
against the Turks. But the unfortu-
nate Greeks have upset nil my projects
in their hatred of «the papacy, prefer-
ring the turban to the tiara. They have
broken the peace of Florence, ill re-
ceived the assistance of the Latins, and
now their capital is no longer for Jesus
Christ, but Mahomet. Ah! Fra Gio-
vanni, can any one in the world be
more wretched than I ? Were it not
that I fear a failure of duty, I would
renounce the pontifical dignity, to be-
come again IVIaster Thomas of Sarzatia
Then, one day gave me more true hap-
piness than I have since enjoyed in a
whole year." The Pope shed tears
abundantly.* Fra Giovanni deeply
commiserated him, and replied in a
voice choked with emotion: ^Most
Holy Father, let us resign ourselves
to the will of God. Bear your cross as
did he of whom you are the vicar ; I
wish I were the good Cyrenean to aid
you. Let us contemplate the images
of the two martyrs I am to paint on
the walls of the chapel, and, like them,
let us learn to suffer." ** You are right,
Fra Giovanni. " Your soul and talent
are truly consolatory, and I love to come
here and open my heart, charged as
it is with incurable anguish." Just

* See this scene In Maretorl, yolnme 25th, paf t
2S6. The taking of Cbnstautlnople was a mortal blow
to NlchoUs v. From that daj he was never Men to

674

A Portrait of Fra AngeKeo,

then twelve o'clock struck. The Pope
knelt down to recite the Anjjelus, and
dried the tears which since St. Peter
so often had reddened the eyci of the
sovereign pontiffs. At thi« moment a
prelate came to announce that the din-
ner of his holiness was ready. *• My
son," said the Pop^s " do not leave me in
this hour of affliction. T hc«j you to
dine at my table " " Holy B'ather,"
replied the htmible monk. ** without the
permission of the prior I dare not do
so. I must dine with my community.''
"But, my son, I can dispense with this
oblip;ation. Come, com(^ !" The Do-
minican dined, therefore, (etea-tefe with
the Pope, but in silence, and with eyes
cast down, as if he had been in his
own refectoiy. It was not a di\y of
abstinence, and me^it was servt^l on the
PoiK**H table, but the monk n'fiised to
partake of it, ** Fra (tiovanni," said
Nicholas, '*you exliuust yourself with
tliis painting, and I perhaps urge you
too closely tofinisli it. You liave work-
ed hanl to day, and should stren«rtii-
en yourself anew by eatinj; some meat.**
" Iloly Father, I can not without the
permission of the pri<^r. The ]*ope
smiled, but could not hel[) admiring;
the innocent seriiplcs of the pious
monk. **3Iy son,'* said he, *• do you not
lliink the authonly of the sovereiirn
jHmtiff piTater tlian the permission of
your prior? For todjiy 1 disj»ense
with tlie rule of St. Dominie, and onh*r
you to eat all that is offercil you."*
The Dominican olx»yed in silence, but
his mind si'emed i)n»(M'Cupied. He
thought unceasingly of the po<ir
guilty Greek whose execution he
had suspended, but he d:ired n(»t sp-ak
of him to the Pope. Nicholas V. per-
ceived his distnu'tion and asked him
of what he was thinking. Then Fra
Angelieo n'lated to him iho story of
Argyn)[)Oulos. and added: ** Holy Fa-
ther, with justice your goviM'umeiit
has coiidennuNl this unhappy umxu to
be executed, hut 1 know your holiness
drsiivs not the death of his soul, and

• Tliit M't-iu', wi.Kh ?rt Will |Hirtra\>lhi.» \irt!'f i>f
Kra .\i:.rt».u-.i. i:. n-Liti-il l.yVii-jiri ainl Kra L4.:i:itir<>
AUn-rtl: l»e Viri> Uiu>tribus Ordiiiii I'rciilcaturuni,
nUii KX.

I have hoped your morcy would gi
him the delay of a day tliat he n
still have time to repent.-' •* My i
I thank you for havinc; acted tl
I accord you not only one diy,
several if necessary." Niclvjlai
then wrote an order suspending
execution, and gave it to Heati>. w
full of joy, asked pcnnission to rei
without finishing his n'past. He
tained it, and in luiste quiurd the Vi
can. Afler passing the bridge of
Angelo, he was strongly temiHed
stop at the prison of Tor ili Noi
but he considered his duty to hia d
vent, where doubtless his ahst»ni"e fn
diimor had OL*<»asioneil surprise. ^^Ti
he entered the cloister of Santa M^i
sopm Minerva, the brothorA had It
the refectory, so the prior exacted <
the dilatory monk a penaniv. wbi<
consisted of eating his dinnt?r Ln
kneeling |x>^ture. The Beato. will
out saying a word to excuse him*«ri
knelt down and simply mad<* a si;
he would rather not e^L Tli»? pri-
then onlert>d him to explain hi» il
sence. *• ^ly Father," said In-. "1 a:
guilty; mea culpa. His IlolJnr
wished me to dim* with him, r:
oblig<Hl me to eat meat without toi
iwrmission." The prior adniin^'i ti
sim[)!ieity and obedience.* of the hles?o
oiii*, but said liothing to disturb hi
humility. The habit of oV>etlicinv wj
soiuitunU to him tiiat all orders hr hi
art were received through his spirinn
superior; ami when any work wa»K
quested of him, his friends wer« n?
lerred to the prior, as nothing i'odM b
done without his con-^ent. He ri^fit^
to stipulate a price for his work?.a»
distributeil all they hi-ouglit hiai to th
p«)or and unfortunate. *• He lovfd il"
|iiH>r during his life,'* said Vasari,'*
ten<Ierly as his soul now love? it»'
heaven when* he enjoys the ^^.
of tlie hlesse<l.'* If he loved the po*
Fni Angidico better loved ayih ; ^
obtained from the prior |»eniiisiii«» *
go immediately to the prison. Uei*
thither with the wings of charity, tfj
showed the order trom the Pope «W
delayed the execufioo. Ue gvvo

A Portrait of Fra AnjeUeo*

675

i to what is now called the

cdly now that so many of
at abbeys are transformed
es of detention. Argyro-
esented himself, grave and
id always in his red dress

tm*ban, which gave him an
csty quite oriental. He was
a straw bed, but his attitude

Solomon enthroned. The
], with his white robe and

figure, resembled one of
ful lilies he so oflen painted
ds of the angel of the annun-
ne of the lilies of the field,
he Saviour himself has said,
3mon in all his glory could
d like one of these." Fra
without saying anything at
ed at the entrance, and, kneel-
i God to cure this ulcerated
ray of light, which shone
through the only window,
d his bared and shaven head,

him the anticipated crown
f the blessed. The Greek
ted with astonishment this
apparition, and thought he
again the dream of the pa-
ncob, who saw angels as-

descend a mysterious lad-
ing strengthened himself by
pa Angelico approached the
lind said in a voice trulv

"My brother!" But the

which Argyjopoulos had
iself up at the vision of the
e was broken by the sound
ice ; he saw in him only a
nonk, and thus a being he

" I am not thy brother, we
ing in common, and I hate
>n of the Azymites."*
ther, you and I are Christians,
fifteen years ago you have
the Greek and Latin church-
the Council of Florence so
aited.'

As our great Duke Notaras
i IS no peace between us. I
iier see the turban of Ma-

hat the Oreeki gave the CathoHce on
t dleeasfloii on the unhaetiud bread
the*

hornet at Constantinople than the tiara
of the Pope."

"O my brother, can you say so?
If you are not Catholic, are you not
Christian ?"

" No, I am so no longer. I do not be-
lieve in God ; and besides, if there is
a God, I have committed crimes too
great for him to pardon. I am pagan
and of the school of Plato ; 1 prefer
Jupiter to Jehovah, Plato to the Scrip
ture, and the gods of Homer to the
saints of Christianity."

" Why, my brother, you have gone
backward two thousand years, to
breathe what Dante calls the fetid air
of paganism, ' II puzzo del paganes
mo.'"

Fra Angelico tried in vain to move
this heart, as hardened and desperate
as that of Judas ; during three days
he fasted, prayed, and begged the
prayers of his fraternity, offered him-
self to God as a victim to save this
soul, and employed against his own
body the instruments of penance.
But God did not grant him the grace
he sought Every morning, while
painting at the Vatican, he rendered
an account to the Pope of his unsuo
cessful efforts, and recommended the
Greek to the pontifical prayers. The
three days expired ; again he solicited
a still longer delay of the execution.
** Holy Father," said he, " a residence in
prison seems to exasperate this unhap-
py man ; perhaps I might obtain a bet-
ter hearing if I could take him out
and let him breathe the fresh air." ^* I
can refuse you nothing, Fra Giovan-
ni. Bring him to see this chapel, I am
sure your painting will do his soul some
good." " I will bring him to-morrow,
since your Holiness permits me, and
at the same time solicit your daily
visit, as I am certain his meeting the
yicar of Jesus Christ will have more
effect on him than my pictures." Nich-
olas V. promised to do so, and wrote
an order to place the captive at liberty
for one day, and at the responsibility
of Fra GiovannL It was a touching
spectacle to see the Pope and the
monk 80 generously united in their ef-

676

A Portrait of Fra An

forts to convert this paganized Bchis- tered ii
matic. temperc
The next morning Fra Angelico ran The Be
to the prison, brought out the Greek, in the d
and proposed to him to see his pic- lincss.
tures, without mentioning the Pope, caused
Argjropoulos, who rather prided him- those ol
bclf on his knowledge of art as well as went ir
of literature, willingly accepted the prescnc
invitation. The fresh air and the glo- But a c
rious Roman sun softened his mood, mind oi
hitherto so ferocious, and gave him an At the
air almost of serenity. Fra Angelico, sumed
transported with joy, conducted his knees, i
future neophyte to tiie Vatican, and vain at
introduced him to the chapel, praying his drcs
God to work in him the same miracle •^ever
which he had granted to St. Methodius, idol of
whose painting of the Last Judgment, who w
on the walls of a palace belonging to Council
the King of Bulgaria, had not only in the
converter! the king, but as many of his pagan,
subjects as looked upon it. The Greek fied, bej
was deeply affected by the?e admirable Arpyro
pictures, and took upon himself to ex- taneous
plain tliem lengthily. To show his byave
artistic knowledge, he criticised the Nichols
executioners who stoned St. Stephen, sage fro
and thought their countenances lacked of the 1
HutRcieni energy. The painter monk out: *.
humbly accepted the criticism, which many <
was not wanting in justice. Acompe- have bi
tent judge has said that the character king, hi
of Fra Angelico was so formed of a entrustc
love amounting to ecstasy that he govern
never could familiarize himself with
dramatic scenes where hateful and vio-
lent {mssions had the ascendency. In Thus, r
tiif* painting of the life of St. Law- church
rence, the Beato bogged the Greek to one sht
particularly observe the prison win- Greek «
(low where tlic martyr was convert- terms,
ing a man on his knees, who atWr- with tei
ward became St. Hipi>olytus. ^ In your bl
painting this scene of conversion I pray G
ihouglit of you, my brother," he said, Nichi
in a voice so sweet and tender it Argj
would have touched a heart of conduct
marble ; but Argyropoulos tunied again c
away hi:* eyes, and pretendtnl not to tures.
hear him. Fra Angelico*s heart was ing," cri
grieved, and he felt his only hope was ** since i
in the sovereign pontiff. He had not I am ui
long to wait for him. Nicholas V. en* since al

A Tbrtraii of Fra AngMeo.

677

d I have broaght you before the
ather, only to bear joa outrage
gnity of God's representative on
" The remembraDce of this scene
etelj overcame the tender and
soal of Fra Angelico. He be-
pale and weak, sank on his white
ike a lilj on its stalk, and fell on
iTement as one dead, according
nte:

** B eadi, come corpo morte cade."

s Greek, seized with pftj and as-
ment, tried vainly to restore him.
ought he had killed bim, and this
whose hands were already blood-
dy imagined he had committed
sr murder. He hated himself

he saw this angel extended at
»L He knelt before him, rubbed
xids in his own, and threw in his
lie water in the vase which was
n his painting. '^ Father, father,"
he, ^ come back to life, and I
to do all you Wish.' The An-

opened his beautiful eyes, Ian-
ng and moist with tears. ** My
jr," said he, ." you restore me to
It again you will give me to death

forget your promise. Now we
leave the chapel ; it is time, ac-
tg to my duty, that I take you
o prison." Notwithstanding his

and feebleness Fra Angelico
d 03 leaving the Vatican imme-
f^ and returned home leaning on
boulder of Argyropoulos. He
nothing until they reached the
; of Tor di Nona. But there

alone with him, the angelical
knelt before the prisoner, and re-
led him for his conduct toward
ope with that sweetness he never
ikI which so greatly astonished
ographer Vasari.* This touch-
kindness greatly affected the
:, who had been already so
r moved by the fainting of
^ He began to comprehend the
rith which this pious monk was
led for the salvation of his souL
brother,'' said the Dominican to

ir,** nld be, "conid one laiprbe blm In an an-
MOl. Ms Mcmed to me incredible : II cbe
■iBftCOMtBilpveimpoMlblleA credere.**

him, while joining his hands, '' yon havo
restored me to life, but in promising
to do as I wish, and I only desire to
save you. You must discharge your
conscience of its weight of sin — ^you
must confess." " But I cannot believe
in the necessity of confession, or in its
divine institution." ** O my brother,
if you could contemplate your poor
soul in its mirror of truth, it would ap-
pear so shaded and sullied. Your soul
is bound in cords ruder than those
that chained your body when they
led you to execution. \J&Mi confession
would deliver you fron> alL" ** Let me
see this with my eyes, or I can never
believe it" A sudden inspiration
came to the mind of the angelical paint-
er. " My brother, we will speak again
of this. I am hurried to finish a pic-
ture; would you be pleased I should
paint it with you by my side^ that I
might every morning distract your
thoughts and keep you company 1"
" Oh ! yes, my father, I should be most
happy, for you are very good to tho
poor prisoner." The Beato obtained
permission from Nicholas V. to sus-
pend for some days his work at the
Vatican, and from the next morning be
installed himself in the prison, accom-
panied by his pupil Benozzo Bozzoli,
who brought with him an easel, some
brushes, and a box of colors. Afler a
fervent prayer, he placed on the easel
a small panel of wood, upon which he
commenced to paint rapidly, and with-
out retouching, according to his cus-
tom ; be never perfected his paintings,
leaving them according to bis first im-
pression, believing, as be said, so God
wished them. " His art," says M. de
Montalembert, '^ was so beautiful in his
^yesj and so sacred, that he respected
its productions as the fruits of an in-
spiration much higher than bis own in-
tention." He commenced by paint-
ing, as a foundation for his picture,
some trees, which rose near a house of
simple appearance, and a modest
church, decorated by a portico sup-
ported by four pillars in Florentine
style. In a court grown over with
herbs and studded here and there with

678

A rorinnU of Fra An^Iieo,

flowers, lie grouped five poreonagos.
At the right our Saviour, clothed in a
blue rolKi and draped in a red mantle,
is seen in profile ; a large nimbufl of
gold encircles his tender and majestic
countenance, his golden hair falls on
his shouKlers. Tlie Saviour has an
attitude of command, and extends his
ami and hand which holds a golden
nxl. He accomplished one of the
greatest acts c»f his mercy, he institutes
the sacnimentof j)enance, he gives to
his a[>09tles the ])Ower to remit sins:
one can almost hear him repeat the
wcnls which he addi-esses to Peter,
that he may transmit them to the entire
Clifistian priesthood : '* Whatsmiver ye
shall bind on earth shall be bound in
heaven, and whatsoever ye shall loose
on earth shall be loosed in heaven."*
'Die painter monk put into action
these wonls of Christ. He painted a
pi-iost in Floixtntine costume ; a re<l
cap eneircleil with ermine and a blue
flnlmatic, wiiich hung in graceful folds ;
his figure is youthful, and expression
benignant. This priest approaches a
.sinner in a red dress, and turbaned
with a cap of gold and ennine. The
sinner is bound with cords which are
pnss(Ml scvenil times around liis IkxIv.
The priest approaches him with inef-
fable compassion. With what cart*,
what delicacy, what res|)ect, what
h)ve, he unties the cord with his white
and pure hands! With what gract*
and dignity he tills his office of priest
and confessor ! The seven capital sIih
are fignn*d by seven demons chased
from his IwMly by absolution, and who
are making (.-very effort to re-enter it.
Rjig«; and iinp;itience are depicted on
the Wwi'A of ihfse servants of Satan,
and their attitudes an? as various as
stninpe. One of them still thivatens
tho siinier with his iron trident. In
tlie srcond part, Fra Angelicd repi-e-
sents a person in a gn^en rol)e and
turban, who ex[)i-esst*8, by fig an* and
•gestun\ his admiration at tlie sight of
this miracle of divine mercy, which is

• III thi' I'onvi nt of St. M.irk at Flonnce. tJif Uoato
bii!«|i;unt'Ml tin isniiiil «<-viiv »ff Calvury. wht-n- he rci>-
rL'>viit<« .^(. Ikiiedia bulding lo hi5 Land the red of
I>euttinc«.

called the institation of conf
Near this man, and right agaii
Saviour, is a second porsonaj
whom the face <mly is seen,
head is bared, and his nngeiici
ures seem to recall those <
Beato, such as they are sculptu
his tombstone at Santa Maria
Miner\a. The Greek had fo
with curiosity and profonml ii
all the dfrtailrt of this picture. :
plished in three days under hi
ins{K*ction. He ha:l udniint
piety of the Angelico, who, u
ing to his custom, liad nut dax
))aint the head of the Saviou
on bendetl kn(«s. Contniry i
usual manner, he had only 1
sketched the face of the einnt-r
with the conl. It was on the
day that he suddenly tinisIiL-d i!.
how express the surpri.-e and en
of Argyro|K)ulos, wli«»n lit* j»in
that, under the fK'neil of tin* u
monk, this face Ix'eame his uwi
tniit ! Tlie blcNscnl one had p
his gray bejird, his r.oble pmfil
expressed in his face at the sarr.<
the grief of being n*strain(ii 1
and the ho[K' of a spe<'dy dt-livc
Argyro|>oulos, in the niidsi \.\i \l
ture, had truly an expression <il <
tion ill the intensiiy of his ivgsin
is I," cried the GitM-k." it I' I iiiii
And he burst into tears. Tijt-
touch of grace had van(jui.-lit*<
at last. ''My father, my fathr
ti(» me al:?o, deliver me 1p«
bonds of many sins. The An
seized him in his amis, and iu
])orts of joy pn.'ss«l him tn hi> I
then begged him to knet*l will
and render tlumks to G<hI. Lie
ed several days in expLiining i
Catholic truths ; then he n*tvivi
acknowledgment of his faults. I
ed him coiHlitionrilly at St. Je
Jjatran, in the liaptistr}* ot' I'u
tine.* The eve of this great J
hod enjoined him, as penance, td
the Vatican, throw himself at tli

* Thr author hmA here fallen Into a n.lfid
Mcraiiitfnl4 lit the lirtrvk iliurvh anr Lcvcr r
cuudiUoually.— £d. Cathvuc Wubla.

A PotHxkU of Fra Angdieo.

679

e Pope, and ask pardon on his
I for the invectiFe he had cast on
)ly father m the chapel. Nicho-
. received him kindly, and said :

son, Jesus Christ has pardoned
ind I could not do otherwise than
whom I am vicar ; I absolve you,
)ly for what you have said against
ut the crimes committed against
y. I grant you full and entire
»D from the punishment you have
ed, in the hope that your new life
itone for the past" The Greek
-ated himself with gnititudc,
issed his feet ; then showed the
•e from which he would never

The Pope admired it, and said
e painter-monk : •* Your pencil
orked another miracle of conver-
' The humble artist replied
only to God must be given the
, and recited the verse of David :
I nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed
li tuo da gloriam." This was the
s of the Templars, and we have
t in Venice engraved on the wall
old palace Vendramini. " Most
bther," said the Greek, ^ I know
That goodness your Holiness has
red my compatriots, Theodore
, Greorge of Trebizond, Calchon-
, and Gemistos Plethon, who

the taking of Constantinople
refuge on a Venetian galley, and
come to Italy, bringing with them
lecious manuscripts of the ancient
k authors and fathers of the Greek
ch, which but for tliem would

been burned by the infidels.
' have been most happy to repay
hospitality by enriching the library
« Vatican with these literary
ifl^." ^ It is true," said Nicholas
Thanks to their and other con-
6, we have become able to re-
in the Vatican nearly five thou-
Doanuscripts ; it is, we believe, the
3t collection made since the dis-
311 of the Alexandrian library.
[ still have one gap to fill, and I
promised a rewaid of fifty thou-
ducats to him who will bring me
pspel of St. Matthew in the orig-
anguage.'' ^ O holy father, how

can I express my happiness ! I pos-
sess this manuscript, which I brought
from Constantinople. Afler having
committed the crime by which I
merited death, I hid this book in a
place in the Roman campagna, where
I could easily find it again. To thank
your Holiness for all your goodness, I
am only too happy to offer you the
gospel of St. Matthew." Nicholas V.
was delighted, he who ever thanked
Grod for the taste given him from his
youth for literature, and the faculties
necessary for its successful cultivation.
On the receipt of the manuscript the
Pope paid to the Greek the fifty
thousand ducats, who, finding him-
self possessed of so great a fortune,
resolved to g«) to Venice, and engage
in commerce with one of his com-
patriots, lie quitted Rome with re-
gret to leave Fra Angelico, but re-
turned at Easter to confess to the
saviour of his seal, as he Ciilled him,
and receive the communion from his
hands in the church of Santa Maria
sopra Minerva. The mass said by
the Beato inspired him with groat de-
votion, and he was happy to receive
from such pure hands the body and
blood of Jesus Christ. The year that
followed 1455, the Greek appeared at
the same epo2h, carrying ever with
him^ in a casket of cedar, the precious
painting which had been the deter-
mining cause of his conversion,* and
which he never ceased to contemplate
with love and gratitude, repeating
what Vasari said of another picture
of the Beato : ^ I can affirm I never
contemplate this work that it does nol
appear new to me, and I am never
satisfied gazing upon it.' Scarcely
landed at Rome, Argyropoulos hasten-
ed, according to his custom, to the
convent of Santa Maria sopra Min-
erva and asked for Fra Angelico. At

* This picture on wood ii painted a tempera and
enriclied irith gold. It is twentj'Mren centimetres
blgh, and twenty-three broad. After various yicls-
situdes it was carried from Rome to Venice, from
Florence to Turin, and flnaily found an asylum in
Paris, in the celebrated Pourtales gallery. To-day it
is in possession of him who relates the story, ac-
cording to a traditional account receired bjr Um at
Borne.

« lam the Wu^.'*

this name grief overshadowed the coun-
tenance of the hrotiier porter, who re-
plied : ^ AIns ! signer, the blessed one
has gone from earth and left us to
sorrow. His death was as angelical
as his life." The prior, wlio appeared,
confirmed the sad news and giive the
details to the heart-broken Grnrtek.
The holy father said he was ao im-
patient to enjoy his beautiful chapel
that he hurried continually our blessed
brother to finish his work; and he,
ever willing to be sacrificed to duty,
and believing he worked for God in
sening this vicar, would not even in-
terrupt his work during the fever sea-
son, which is always more pernicious
at the Vatican than elsewhere. His
health was lost by it entirely, he lan-
guished, and died at last of malaria.
Argyropoulos shed tears and asked to
pray by the tomb of his friend. It is
still seen at the left of the church
choir, a simple tombstone encased
vertically in the wall; the painter-
monk is rudely sculptured in bas-re-
lief in his Dominican robe, with hands
joined, his head uplifted, and mouth
partly 0|)entHl as in prayer, as he was
in life, as he was particularly in death.
I have often contemplated this sepul-
chral stone, and recalled the verse of
Danto, which could so well have de-
scribed the heart of Argyropoulos :

^* Come, perchtt ili Inr mrmnria fio,
Sovr' n !»^pnUi Ic toiiiU- ti-rrajfiie
Portoii iii«giiato qiH'l rli'i'lll f^ran prla ;
Oiidt* U iiitilte volto ■irl|>ia;(He.
Tor III pun ura delU riiiionbranxa
Che bulu A pii (I* delle calcagae.**

"As to preserve the memory of the
dead, the tombs given them on earth

bear the impress of their feati
they were in life, so each tin
weeps over them the pious h<
pierced with the remembi
'• Nicholas Vm" said the prior
Greek, ^ was inconsolable at the
of his painter and friend, an
vi ved him but a few weeks. It
great Pope who has erected this
ment to Fra Angelioo, and who
posed the epitaph you can read c
stone :

" • inc Jacrt Ten. P!rtor.

Fr. Ju. (le rior. Onl. F.
MCCCCLV.
Nnn mlhl fit Uudi quod eram Tdut alurr Aj
Se<t «iu<>«l lucra tuii omnia Ciihvtc ilaham
Altera nam torrid ctpera exunt altera rxlo
Urbi in« Joaoneu floa tuUt Etnuia*.' "

" Here lies the venerable paii
Brother John, of Florence, of tl
der of Brother Preachers ; 1455.
me not be praised because* I
painted as another Apelh-s, bu
cause I have given all I made t
poor. O C'hrist ! I have workc
heaven at the same time as for <
I am called John, the town wh
the flower of Etrurin wa^ my omi

Argyropoulos remained ftMis I
ing by the tomb, then on risinj: .*
the prior: *'Tell me exactly th^
of his death; for me it will ever he i
niversary to be celebrated with
ers and tears." *' It was the \t^
last March," replie«l the pri«»r, - ih
blessed one went to heaven, thr
contemphite the true mrxlels i«
dear and holy pictures which, wi
much love, he painted on earth "

* We most remark thU title nf ▼en-rablrc'.*
AnKelIco lmme<liately after UU Ue^tL. uid
Justtflea the pn|iiilar eannnliatluo wLicL hk
named him lu Italjr, II UeatOL

OBMSIXiU

''I ^VM THE WAY.''

•* I AM the way.'' I well believe thy word ;
The truth of it is plain enough to see.
For never was there yet a man, O Lord,
So roughly trodden under foot like thee I

Ckriiiine.

flBl

CHRISTINEJ

5r of the present remarks
"St acquaintance with the
r consideration during the
1 of Indian summer, and
y of its pages beneath the
ramores by the side of a
eamlet, ever and anon lifV-
from the book to scan the
1 foliage of trees mellowed
mce and draped in lu-
He took it up a second
Iriven into the house by
itorms, and a third when
ad doffed their painted
tood as black and cold as
is we read of in the Scan-
la. But whether in-doors
iterside or fireside, he al-
Jhristine and her sisters
inial and charming corn-
not prefer the sunny side
le to the dark one ? Are
id medals more pleasing
1 on the side bearing the
ind and inscription? Juicy
• plum, peach, or apple —
ye dwell with more pleas-
side which is tinted with
sh and which glows with
3om ? The same may be
geon's neck, a maiden's
why not of a volume of
us, therefore, fix our eyes
ight points, the beauties ;
human production must
rfections, let us, when we
Be last, pass them over
almost in silence. The
he composed his book,
ts perusal would add to
It, and expected to accom-
t by means of its defects,
)n of its many exceUen-

other Poems. Bj George n. MUat-
DceKehoe.

Many, many such excelleaces be-
long to Christine. Open the book,
reader, and as if by magic you will
fiud yourself transported some eight
hundred years backward in the world's
history, and will fly on fancy's wings
from the age of steam-cars and tele-
graphs to that -of chivalry and tho
crusades. You will find yourself now
in the south-east of France, now in
Savoy, gazing in succession at the
Rhone, the Is^re, the Alps, Pilate's
Peak, and the Grande Chartreuse, and,
in short, wandering over that romantic
land so dear to all true lovers of poe-
try, and so renowned of old for

" Dance, Proven^l song, and sun-burnt mirth.**

The story is founded on one of those
old devotional legends of the early
church, many of which have afforded
such fine subjects both to the painter
and poet Were I to enumerate one-
tenth part of the fine specimens of
pictorial art which have been founded
on such subjects, I should soon swell
out the list to a sufficient number to
constitute a good-sized picture-gallery.
I will only allude, in passing, to a few
masterpieces, most of which are famil-
iar, even to the untravelled reader,
from engravings, copies,and written de-
scriptions. Among the most noted are
the Sl Cecilia by Raphael, the Visbn
of Constantine by the same artist, the
Assumption of the Virgin by MuriUo,
the Marriage of St. Catharine by the
same, the Archangel Michael by Gui-
do, and St. Patronilla by Guercino.
These two last have been copied in
mosaic to adorn the interior of St Pe-
ter's. Of poems of this nature might
be cited as among the best, Dryden's
Ode to St. Cecilia, the Virgin Martyr
by Massenger, the Golden Legend by
Longfellow, and the Eve of St. Agnes
by Keats.

682

Christine.

Cliristinc, I think, may fairly In?
catalogued among the Barae sainted
bistcrliood.

Tliesci traditions and lep:enda ot* an
earlier and more credulous age may
be likened to the egg!», Iwautifiilly
spotted and fantastically marked, which
8 »me delighted school-boy finds in
spring-time, after hours of climbing and
nest-hunting. Such Oi::^^, curious in
themselves, and broodcid over by gen-
ius, often break forth into wingiMi and
musical poems, which afterwanl soar
high above the nests and the tree-tops
in which they were first cnidlcil. Suoii
is the case with the one now under
consideration. In a new world, in a
land wliich was not then even dreamed
to be in existence, it arises lark-like,
soaring and singing toward •' heaven's
gate." Let us watch it lor a few mo-
ments, reader, and listen to its matin
melody ; my word for ir, we shall be
none the worse, either in heart or head,
for having done bo.

1 shall not mar tlie lK?auties of this
radiant Httle po<*m by aitenipting a
cold and prosaic outline ; this would,
indeed, be to offer a dingy silhouette in
place of a picture glowing wiili all the
colors of a Tintoi-etto. Instead of this,
I say, let the volume snerik for it>elf ;
procure it, read it aloud to your frii-iul ;
then? is music sleejMng in th^ Ixxik.
awaken it to the sound of your own
voice, and even though you njay Im» a
Protestant of the strictest seliool, you
will find here nothing to uflend, nothing
to call forth a wonl of disapproalion,
with one proviso, however, and that is
that you ivad it as the tirle-pag*' di-
rects. Kemember always that it is
supposed to be *' A song by a Trouba-
dour."'

A troubadour? And what was a
troubadour'"' And what weiv liis
mainsprings of action ? Hear an an-
swer in th<» language* of one of the
most gifted of their nimil>er.

" A l)li«n mon niii«\ ni:i vii> an ml,
Miin cii'tiruux Uuiiie.", rboiiiieur ]>oiir ninl I*'

This, interpreted into tamer and moifj
prosaic language, means that his ruling
principles of action wei-c religion, loy-

alty, gallantry, and honor; in <
words, his soul, his life, his hear
lonired resj)ectively to God. to tin-
to the ladies, and only his lienor I
scrveil to himself. Such was !ii* i
such was the disinterestwl and
spirit which animated him. and ^
breathed tli rough all his lays, hi:^
lays, his morning sougs. his M-n-ii
his sonnets, his idyls, his villaru
his madrigals, and bis canzom-t*
this spirit acted the enthusiastic l\
who l>ecanie enamored of the C'«»ii
of Tripoli from the rejKirts wlii^
heard of the iia^pi table mann-
which she treated the Crusaders
wIki, without having everse*^n !i;t
ually starttKl of on a long vo\:ii
visit the object of his adminition.
has not heard of lUundcl. and i>i
romantic ineidtrut by which he vli<
ei-ed the lion-liearitd Kirbard »
imprisoned in the castio of Ljvcip^:
But in addition to the abuVL'-i
lioned motive i)rinciples, the tni
dour was influenced by anollur >
ment, which had a powerful cfftK
all the feelings and actions of Lis
This was an intense ami roniaii!i»-
erati«m for the Virgin Mary. In
with little variation the following \\<
which we find in another pM-ni ii
same volume, entitled •* Kupiia- 1
zio," might wi:li etpial proprielv h
tributed to one of the trouUidirdrs.

— " Hit «lii-*«* r t!nr* 1 h.T\.» iii.n >li f fr-

I (Iri'aiiUKl III Ipt'aiiiv in tli*' rli>-tiiiit • :.-■•«
<)i rnihrU — Hit fi-i wh.uii iii> 1- -t ■■: .';
H.l:* li.en nilf.'l:i»«»>r — // i. //.« .V-'?-P'f' '■ *»

II Ac* i/'"'t '" f-r'tt'.- , «,' (^'iiv /;, r * i.ij.j 4 '#
'Jo OW (I wu>Vn r."

Such, then, was the troukidonr.
binhplace was I'rovoncc. li
there, in fact, that during the d;irl.
of liie Middle Ages the ma^'
her torch which laul long Ikmmi c
guisluMl. Many years b«'fore Da
great ]KM'm rrwH^ like a sun — :i
ag:iin to set — the iroulKidours. i
moming stars of |KK*sy, "sang in:
er and shouted for jt>y.'* The ini
dour pn^cede<l the Saxon bard
Anglo-Norman minstnd, and the
man minnesinger. There weri'
those curious courts of love v

CkrMne.

063

I and noble ladies often presid-
1 there were exhibited, on green
owery ineadows, those poetical
t3, those festive jousts and tour-
its, the idea of wliich seems to
een caught from the neighboring
ins of Spain. The cross and the
it both added somethino; to the
result, the one contributing the
nd earnest glow of devotion, the
the pomp and circumstance of

all these circumstances our poet
ith exquisite tact and skiU, avail-
iself. Christine herself, when
en years old, had accompanied
ther to the Hoi}' Land. This
I an oriental richness around
hole bearing and manner of

^''

i>ooth thna art fair,

) ladye dear,
Yet one niay see

rhe shadow of the Ea^ in thee ;
Tinting to a riper flush
The feint vernillion of thy blush ;
Deepening in thy dark-brown hulr
lUl sunshine sleeps in starlight there/*

gray charger which plays so
:niou8 a part in the action was
mder the palm-trees of Pales-
md his name, Caliph, would
to indicate an Arabian descent.
s subtle link the connection be-
Proven^al and Arabic poesy
delicately to be hinted at. The
lat the main poem concludes in
•form, if accidental, is curious ;
ight about by design, is a happy
it, inasmuch as the sonnet de-
its birth in Provence, and also
he fact that, from the number of
ts (twice seven), and the coUoca-
f its rhjrmes, it is instinct with
ian symbolism.

I song itself, or story of Chris-
divided into five cantos or sub-
which, like the five acts of some
tie melodrama, arrest the atten-
x>m the start, and conduct the
• by five stages of increasing
it to the jubilant conclusion.
B main picture, as it may be
has hanging on each side of
laUer lateral one, one of which is
I of prelude and the other the

Jinale tp the whole performanco.
This reminds us of some of those
works of art by the older masters, in
which a smaller side-picture may be
seen to the right and left of the main
representation. These appendages,
though apparently slight and worded
with extreme conciseness, are artisti-
cally conceived and add greatly to the
general effect. They are also in fine
peeping with the time and spirit of the
legend itself, reminding us of one of
those triple-arched emblazoned win-
dows so often seen in old Grothic
edifices. But the chief advantage
derived from such an arrangement
is, that the two smaller or lateral
pieces serve as links to connect the
more confined interests of the story
with that grandest event in history,
namely the Crusades, and thus to
impart to the whole a breadth and
grandeur of design which the size ^
of the |X)em scarcely led us to ex- '
pect In the prelude we are pre-
sented with a view of the trouba-
dour himself, who is suppled to
sing the song, and not only mmself,
but his lady love, together with Rich-
ard of the Lion Heart, his queen, and
all his chivalry. These last ai^e at the
time gazing over the blue Mediterra-
nean, on which, in the distance. King
Philip of France is seen sailing home-
ward with his receding vessels. The
finale exhibits the arrival of a fleet
under English banners. In both, a
glimpse is caught of the troubadour
who sings the song; in the one case,
before he commences his romaunt, in
the other, as he retires unnoticed
and unthanked by the English mon-
arch.

In the midst of so many beauties
and artistic excellences, it is with re-
luctance that I notice two little cir-
cumstances which some might con-
sider as slight blemishes. Caliph,
the charger above alluded to, is
spoken of as **the gallant gray."
This expression sounds almost too
trite and commonplace to find a
place in so original a poem. Even
if the color were preserved, I should

684

OkritHne.

prefer some more novel and striking
form of words. But would not pure
white be a hue more suitable in itself,
and also form a finer contrast with the
coal-black steed which is ridden by the
Goblin Horseman of Pilate s Moant ?
The last personage forms the evil, as
Christine forms the good^ principle of
the poem. Bj placing one upon a
white and the other on a black horse,
the antagonism would be brought oQt
in bolder relief, and we should be re-
minded of the fine allegory in Plato's
Phsedra, where tlie cliariot of Psyche
is represented as drawn by two steeds
of opposite colors, under the guidance
of Reason, who is the charioteer.

The other — a trifle scarcely worthy
of mention — is this : For the expres-
sion ^ Santo sudario'* I should like to
see substituted ** Veronica," not so
much on account of its effect upon the
ear, as on account of those subtle trains
of associated ideas which either lead
us off from or on to poetical ground, as
the case may be.

In justice to the author I must add
Ihat orthese suppoaefl blemishes I am
doubtful, whereas of the beauties above
alluded to I feel perfectly certain. It
is much more easy to suggest altera
Htions when a work is finished than
by one's own effort to finish a perfect
work. As a whole, there is a youthful
fire and glow about the poem which
cannot fail to render it captivating to
the young, and a devotional and ear-
nest tone of feeling which must be ex-
tremely acceptable to those more ad-
vancfjd. Keserving the " other poems"
which accompany it for a future article,
I shall conclude my remarks by a short
extract taken almost at random from
the tliird song :

" They are comln;r from this castle,

A bery of bright-eyed girU,
Some with their long I(K-li>i braided,

Some with loone f;«>l<len curls.
Merrily 'mid tiie meadow*

They win their wilful way ;
Wlndinj; thruu|rh sun and shadow,

ElTulcts at play.

Brows wHh vhlU rowbadt blowtac,

Necks with white peart entwioed,
Gowns whose white folds IrapriioB

WafU of the wandering wind.
The boughs of the channM woodland

Sing to the rlsion swMt.
The daisies that coach In the doTcr

Nod to their twinkling feet
They see Christine by the rirer.

And, deeming the bridegmom near.
They ware her a dewy rose-wreath

FrcAh plucked from ber dait-browa hair.
Hand In hand tripping to m««t her

Bird like they carol their Joy,
Wedding soft Proven^ numbers

To a dulcet old strain of Savoy.**

How trippingly and buoyantlj do
these verses gallopade adown the jo-
cund page, as if one of the blithest of
the old masters of the '^ gaya scientia.*
had been thrown by Merlin into an en-
chanted sleep, and, awaking from his
slumber of- eight centuries, was evea
now poaring into verse one of the
freshest of his matin vi8k>ns. Aud
that bevy of dancing maidens! long
may they continue to bound in tiptoe
jollity adown the salient page. The
glad creatures arc as yet ignorant of
the fact that Christines noble lover is
lying in a death-like a ivoon, and that
Christine herself lias just had an inter-
view with the fearful demon who wish-
es to bear her off in triumph. Each
one of them seems to be a kind of
Proven9:il Minnehaha, and mar be
compared to one of those merry wate^
falls which come tumbling down the
mountain- side, leaping in joy from roek
to rock, and quite heedless of the black
precipices which surround them.

But enough. As Cleopatni*s barge
of old went sailing down the rirer
Cydnus, with bumisliod hull and per-
fumed sails, and silver oiirs rowin* in
unison with dulcet flutes, so ever and
anon, at long intervals, is launched
into the world some rare |K>em, which
moves sailing down the river of time, to
the admiration of all beholders. It be-
hooves us, when such an apparitioa
heaves in sight, whether it be poem or
vessel, to be on die lookout and not to
miss the pleasure of saluting it with ooi
heartiest cheers.

Geniui in a Airmail Attic.

685

GENIUS IN A PARISIAN ATTIC*

Jjf a former articlef we traced the
course of Maurice de Gu^rin's career
at La Chdnaie ; and lefl him in Paris,
bewildered by the rush and whirl of
such a city, one day to become so
familiar to him. We will now let his
journal and letters exhibit the curious
change through which he passed in
luming from the fair Utopian dreams
of Lamennais to the work-day expe-
riences of an unsuccessful author.

To do this fully we must retrace
our steps to Le Val, the asylum thrown
open to him by Hip]x>lyte de la Mor-
vonnais when he left Ploiirmcl. GmS-
rin's record of that peaceful sojourn
in Brittany is as distinct from our pop-
ular ideas of French life as Eugenie's
sketches of Rayssac and Le (Jay la.
The brother and sister have success-
fuUy proved that all Frenchmen are
not deceitful and unbelieving, nor all
Frenchwomen vain and perfidious.
Surely no young man in any country
ever met with influences more somid
and elevating than Maurice found in
the society of Eugenie and Mimin ;
of Louise de Bayne, Madame de la
Morvonnais, and Caroline de Ger\'ain ;
or with friends more enduring than
Hippolytey Paul Quemper, Marzan,
Tr^tien, and D'Aurevilly.

There is in France an undercur-
rent of domestic life as pure and fresh
as the superficial existence in her
great cities is shallow and turbid. In-

• la a prtrmU letter reedred from a member of the
OoAiin fiadlv— one vhMe name is held In gentle rer-
trmee bv all Uie readers of Eugenie's Journal— ire
MVMked if Hwoald be possible to Interest devout
foals in America in the reconstruction of the little
dnreh of Andlllac We vould ghidly answer this
cHMstlon In tlie afflnnaUve, for the restoration of
Ka(6nle*a parish church vould be a monument that
•▼•■ her bamillty conld not reject

Tbm unallesl rams for this purpose will be fprate-
faUj reeelred and forwarded to Andlllao by MIm K.
F. Onry, Cambridge, Mass.^ Office of Tna Catuouo
WoBLD, 145 NasMO Street, New- York.

t 8m artiela la T« Catvouo Woeld of June, 1906,

-'-' ' i TvoPtotanaor Ufi in trance before 1M9.

deed, the more familiar one becomes
with French life and manners, the
more one appreciates the truth of the
mot of a certain cardinal : *' Tliere is
no purgatory for Frenchmen ; they go
straight to heaven or hell." But we
will no longer detain the reader, by
moral reflections, from the perusal of
the selections we have made from Gue-
rin*s writings.

Le Val, Dec. 7th, 1833.
After a year of perfect calm, but for
interior tempests for which I must not
blame the solitude that has unfolded
me in such silent peace tliat any soul
less unquiet than mine would have
slumbered deliciously therein ; after
a year, I say, of absolute tranquillity,
Fate, who had let me enter the holy
house to rest awhile, smote on the
door to call me forth again ; for she
had not gone on her way, but had sat
waiting on the threshold till I should ^
gather strength to resume the journey.
" You have tarried long enough," she
said ; ^ Come." And she took me by
the hand and tramped on like the poor
women you meet in the road, leading a
tired, lagging child. But what folly it
is to complain ; are there no troubles
in the world but mine to weep for ? I
will say henceforth to the fountain of
my tears, " Dry up," and to the Lord,
^ Lord, heed not my complaints "when-
ever I am tempted to invoke Grod and
my tears in my own behalf ; for suf-
fering is good for me, who can merit
nothing in heaven by my actions, and,
like all weak souls, can earn nothing
there except through the virtue of suf-
fering. Such souls have no wings to
raise them up to heaven, and the Lord,
who would fain possess them, sends
help. He lays them on a pile of thorns,
and kindles the fire of grief; the coo-

C86

Cfenius in a Pariiian Attie.

fluming wo3d moants up to heaven like
a white vapor, or like the doves that
a-»ed to spring upward from the dyingf
flames of a martyr s ^take« This is
tlie soul which has completed its sac-
rifice, and grown light enough in the
fire of trihulation to rise to heaven like
a smoke. The wood is heavy and im-
movable ; set fire to it, and a part of
itself will ascend to the clouds.

8th.-^Yesterday the west wind blew
furiously. I watched the shaken ocean,
but to me its sublime disonler was far
from equalling the spectacle of a calm
blue sea, and yet wliy say tlmt one is
not equal to the other? Who can
measure these two sublimities and say
that the second surpasses the first?
Let us only say: "My soul delights
rattier in serenity than in a storm.''

Yesterday there was a great battle
fought in the watery plains. On came
(he bounding waves, like innumei*able
hordes of Tartar cavalry galloping, to
and fix) on the plains of Asia — on to
the chain of granite islets that bar
the entrance to the bay. There we
saw billows upon billows rushing to
the assault, flinging thonisolvrs wildly
against the ix>cky masses with hideous
clamor, tearing along to leaj) over the
black heads of the rocks. The bold-
est or lightest sprang over with a groat
outcry ; the others dashed themselves
with sluggish awkwardness against the
ledges, throwing up great showers of
dazzling foam, and then drew oif
growling, like dogs beaten b:ick by a
trav(»ller 8 staff.

We watched the gn»at stniggle from
the top of a cliff, where we could hard-
ly keep o'lr feet against the whirling
wind. The awful tumult of the sea,
the rushing boisterous waves, the
swift but silent passing of the clouds,
the sea-birds floating in the sky, bal-
ancing their slender bodies on wide-
archeJ wings; all this accumulation
of wild, resounding harmonicfs, con-
verging in the souls of two beings five
feet (French) high, phinted on ih" civst
of a cliff, shaken like two leaves by
the energy of the wind, and not more
apparent on this immensity than two

binls perched on a clod of earth. Oh!
it was something strange and wonder-
ful, one of those moments of sublime
agitation and deep revery combiDCfl.
when the soul and nature rear them-
selves in majesty before each other.

From this height we clambon:!
down into a gorge which opens a
marine retreat, such as the ancienL<t
could have described to peaceful ware*
that rock themselves to sleep there mur-
muring, while their frantic brethren la«h
the rocks, and wrestle among tliem-
selves. Huge blocks of gray granite,
embossed with white lichens, are
thrown in disonler on the slant of
the hill which ha^ hollowed out an
inlet for this cove. They look, so
strangely are they fossefl about, half
tipi)ing toward the slope, as if a giani
had amused himself with hauling tbem
from the height nl)ove, and they had
been checked by some obstacle, som*
a few feet from the point of depart-
ure, and olhera half way down ; anJ
yet they seem to have paused, iwt
stopptxl, in their c«>urse, or mtlKT
they ap]>ear to be still rolling. Th-
sound of thi» wintls and waves poariir,'
into this echoing recess makes gltjrioU''
harmony. We 8to<Kl thoro a I'Hij
time, leaning on our walking-sticU
looking and listening and wondering.

9th* — ^The moon was shining with a
few stars when the bell call<^ us tJ
mass. I es[)ecially enjoy this ma*?,
celebrated in the early morning be-
tween the last rays of starlight and the
first beams of the rising sun.

In the evening Hipitolyf* and I wa>
d(»red along the coa'^t, for we wi?h<*l
to see what the ocean is like at th-?
clo3«.' of a calm, gray December da*.
jVtist veiled the distances but k?ft Sjiii't*
enough to suggest infinity. We *a-
tioned ourselves on a point wbert^
a tidesman's hut stands, and leair<l
against the wall. To the right a woi»i
8[»reading over the slope of the co*^t.
stretched its thin, naked bnnchtri
out into the pale light with a Ciin ,
sighing sound. Far awaj to oar M
the tower of Ebibena vaniabed into ibe

Geniui in a Parinan Auie.

687

and then appeared again with
t gleam upon its brow, as some
) ray of twilight succeeded in
g the clouds. The sound of
:a was calm and dreamy, as on
lirest days, but with a more
A'e tone. We followed this

as it swelled along the shore,
ily taking breath wheu the waves
ttd poured it forth gave place to
;r. I believe it is from the deep,
tone of the advancing wave as
iirls itself, and from the shrill,
' sound of the retreating wave
g against the shells and sand,
le marvellous voice of the sea is
1. But why dissect such music ?
i say nothing worth hearing on
bject, for I am no adept at anal-
3 we'll go back to sentiment.

shadows thickened around us,
I never thought of going away,

the earth grew slill, and the
unveiled its mysteries, grander
the harmony of the sea. Like
statues set ou promontories by
icicnts, we stood immovable,
ted and spell bound by the

of the ocean and the night,

no sign of life except to look
'n we heard the whistling wings
wild duck overhead.

thread of my wandering for-
led me to a solitary h(»adland
tany to dream away an autumn
5. There for sevenU hours those
* sounds were hushed that never
een still since the first tempest
in my breast. There a sweet,
ly melancholy stole into my
vith the ocean chords, and my
andered in a paradise of rev-
Oh ! when I shall liave lefr Le
d poured my parting tears int^
om of your friendship ; when I
B in Paris where there is neither
lor ocean, nor any soul like

wlien I shall wander alone
\j sadness and with an almost
ing heart ; what tears I shall
er the memory of our evenings ;
piness is a fine, gentle rain that
Qto the soul, and then gushes
L torrents of tears.

21st. — For several days the weath-
er has done its worst. The rain falls
and the wind blows in gusts till it
seems^as if everything would be torn
to pieces by the storm. These three
nights I have started up wide awake
as the gale swept by at midnight, be-
sieging the house so furiously that every •
thing in-doors shook and trembled.
I spring up in my bed white, and list-
en to the hurricane, while a thousand
thoughts that swept, some on the sur-
face, others deep down in my soul,
start into shuddering wakefulness.

All the sounds of nature ; the winds,
those awful bn^athings from an un-
known mouth, rouse up the innumer-
able instruments in the plains or on
the mountains, hidden in the hollow
of valleys or massed among the for-
ests ; the waters with their marvellous
scale of tone, ranging from the tink-
Img of a fountain through moss, to the
wondrous harmonics of the ocean ;
thunder, the voice of that sea that
floats above us ; the rustling of dry
leaves beneath a human foot or before
a whirling breeze ; in short, for I must
stop short in enumerating innumei"-
able sounds, this continual emission
of tone, the floating rumor of the
elem(*nts, dilutes my thoughts into
strange reveries, and throws me into
unutterable amazement. The voice of
'nature has taken such hold upon me
that I can hardly free myself from its
perpetual influence, and in vain I try
to turn a deaf ear. But to wake at
midnight amid the cries of the storm,
to be assailed in the darkness by a
wild, tumultuous harmony, overthrow-
ing night's peaceful empire, is some-
thing incomparable among strange
impresiiions. It is ecstasy in the midst
of terror.

Caen, 24th January.

I have been wandering along the
streets of this city by the dim light of
the street lamps. What did I see?
Black phantoms of steeples and church-
es, whoso outline I could barely trace.
The mystery of night, which envelo[)ed
them without limiting their diaieii3ioiu>

688

GcniM in a Parisian Af tie.

like dear daylight, added to their im-
pressive influence, and flUed me with
an emotion that was wortli more, 1 bt;-
lieve, than forms. My thoughts soar-
ed up to heaven wilh the never-end-
ing spires, and wandered awi»-stni<!k
through naves tl>at were mournful as
sepulchres. That was all. Tlie streets
were crowdoil, but what is a crowd by
niglit, or even by day ? At night I
I njoy more tlie sound of tlie wind, and
in the daytime those grand assemblies,
now silent and now rocking and roar-
ing, called forests. Besides, I met
several of that class of men who al-
ways put me to flight ; students strut-
ting along in gown and cap, and wear-
ing in every feature a nameless ex-
pression that reduces me to n)ut and
discomfitun*. Oh! my dear journal,
my gentle friend, how 1 ftdt that I
loved thee, as 1 worked my way out of
the multitude. And here 1 am with
thee now, thougli the niglit is far ad-
vanced and I am lialf di'ad with fa-
tigue ; all alone with thecielling thee
my griefs, and letting ihoe pea -efully
into my siMTCts. Can 1 n'call oHeii
enough those nii'inorics all steepiMl in
tears, that will ever dwell inc(>rni])ii-
ble within my soul? Kind llipitolyte
and his exquisite Marie! 1 bade
her fan*well; she answcnMl m«> in a
few woiils of touching kinJne-is J
stammeri'd out a fi»w words nions and
was running down the steps thinking
that slie had n4)l come beyond the
thr(>shoId, afid that all was over ; whon
I heard another fan? well coining to m<»
from above, and, looking up, saw her
leaning over the iKilustradi'. I answer-
ed very softly, for her voice had t'lken
away the little strength J had to keep
back mv leai-s.

MAL'KKK 1)K (UKKIN TO M. H. DK LA
MOKVONN VI^.

Pakis, Feb. 1st, 18;34.

You thought you would rcvV.Mve
news of me by the end of this week.
Your CJilcubit ion 1ul« proved false, and
you are feeling impatient, and thinking
that 1 am neglectful, and that the tu-

mult of Paris has dulled my car
the 8wec?t, lovely voice of friendztl
that sings unceasingly in the dopl
of my soul. Imagine no such tliii
my dear friend. God knows tl
sinct* I came to Paris I have listen
to nothing but the two farewells tl
I heartl on that black Thursday ev(
ing, one fi-om her whom you mi
li't me call your sweet Marie, who.
1 went down-stairs thinking that eve i
thing was at an end, leaned over I
balustrade to say good-by once mor
and the other from you, on the s!c
of the carriage, uttered half aloud
you clasped my hand. I hear tlu
two voices incessantly, and never f
to listen to them, while all other boqd
pass by jis if they were not

I did not see Quemper until ti
days atter my arrival, TuomI
morning, when I surpris(*d him
bed, dreaming, between slr«>pin2 ai
waking, of musie, dancing, fresh p
lands (»f young nmidens, and all t!
other vague and enchantin:; inu;;
that fl<»at through the imaiinati<
long after the magic of a bail h
(Kissed away. Our friend hal i^[K'
the hiirht at one of those ra-.Iiani e
lerta in meats, whose brill i:incy lii:« pi'
fivsh as if flipped in a dew-dru;i, *\
picts wilh such sparkling charm. J
of a suddeii^ my pale and melancho
visag** apiM'anil to put ihe*e fj
dreams to flight; but though U ma
have lookt'd among them mu.li lil
one of those crows tiiat we uh
to see flying among fli>cks of whi
sea-gulls, be embracvd me with all tJ
eonliality that you n'member in bii
1 sat down by bis U'dside. and the i
vacity of our first greetings liariii
eiTe rvesced, a long and charming ooi
versation gradually unndled icdelf, (
which this is the suljstnnee : remen
ber that he was the s|>caker and thi
I interrupted him very seldom, so an!
ious was I to gather up all bii ii
stmctions.

The most diflieult task to accomplia
at the beginning of the career whk
we liave chosen m to gel puhHshed^ I
bring one's name before the pubb

Geniui in a I\m$ian Jutt,

mentioned the aames of sev-
lung men who haa been vainly
ig at the gates of journals for

years past We are already
inced, since two are thrown open
}nthoUc France and the £aro->
teview. Booksellers have no
I the unknown, and would re-
»stinately to have a masterpiece
if it were the first attempt of its

while if they have seen his
iver so little in reviews and
Is they would prove facile and
lodating. Therefore we must
our whole strength to making
mes known through magazines
pers.

in order to write acceptably for
t of publication one must adapt
elf to its habits, speak its lan-
and become all things to all
n matters of style merely, you
and. Let us strive, then, to
beir ways, as the saying is, and
w our thoughts into the con-
al mould, until we shall have
1 to such independence of

will leave us free to clothe
Mights after our own fashion.
is no use in disguising the fact

long as we serve under an

committee (I dwell upon this
because it is an important
id Qaemper insisted upon it
rongly), we must, to a certain
renounce the habits of style pe-
to ourselves, and adopt those
oumal ; so that, while preserv-
r individnality, we may blend
nbine it with customs foreign
lature. It is hard for men like
I characteristic traits of their
rood and independent of the
I they have railed at and dis-

it 18 hard for such men to
hemselres in the livery of the

follow instead of leading, to
itead of designing ; but neces-
:h her iron nail stands before
inally, the committee of the
in Review refused an article
des himself because it was in
ne ibnxL
D the Review, we must share

VOL. IV. 44

the editing of it thus : Each number
should contain a leading article purely
philosophical, an article of a high or-
der of literary criticism, and an arti-
cle, artistic or imaginative, of a light
character fitted to relax the mind
after reading the first two. Yon,
Duquesnel, and I could share the
labor and play into each other's hands,
so that each number should have as
oflen as possible three articles from
us, conceived in the manner that I
have just indicated; only remember
that you must leave the light article
for me, because I know nothing of
philosophy or criticism.

And now let me tell what my pres*-
ent position is. I have hired a little-
room at twenty francs a month, near
my cousin, lie could not take me
into his own family ; my friend, Lefeb-
vre, could not accommodate me either ;
and besides, the fact is tliat one must
be alone and quite independent if one
would work well ; it is better to have
a house of one*s own. I take my
meals at my cousin's ; in short, I am
in a very tolerable position, and one
that will allow me to try my fortune
for three months to come, and I hope
much longer.

Add to this a most charming per-
spective, from which I hope much for-
the advancement of my fortunes and
the maintenance of my courage. At
the end of this month Quemper is go-
ing to change his lodgings. He has
in view, still, in ^the rue des Petits-
Augustins, an apartment consisting
of three rooms, two bed-chambers
and a parlor. He proposes that I
should take one of these rooms, which
would cost me twenty francs, like the
one I have at present, and that we
should share the parlor. Yoa may
imagine that I accepted the plan with
both hands, especially because it will
be so delightful to live with such a
friend. We have already laid out a
life of uninterrupted happiness not to
be described, a sort of Le Yal for
us two inthe midst of Paris. Candia-

GeniuM tn a Parisum Juie,

: \

■I

comagement seize upon me there ? and
if it comes, cannot we put it to flight 1
Quempej* has drawn up a rule of life
for me, and given lessons in a double
economy of which I knew nothing-—
that of time and money ; in short, as
he says, he will pilot me through life
and Paris, two paths where I lose my-
self completely, though I number twen-
ty-three years of life and eight years
of Paris. I begin to believe tliat in
spite of myself or any evil genius, I
shall accomplish something.

If I turn to the source of all these
blessings, I find you, my dear friend,
who by your exhortations and gener-
ous reproaches, sowed in my soul the
first germs of the courage that I feel
Rturing within me now. You urged
me to come to Paris when I was con-
templating a cowardly retreat; you
bound me in that ripe slieaf of fricnd-
phip with yourself, Quemper, and Dii-
quesnel,an endless blcsshig from which,
perhaps, all the success of my life will
grow ; to you 1 owe two months of
beautiful impressions and pure hap-
piness. You let me look upon Lo
Val as a second Le Cay la, love it with
the affection that belongs to one's birth-
place, for it was the June of my sec-
ond burth ; weep for it in momf*nts of
sadness, and sing of its charms wlum
I am ghvd.

My cousin's little girl is nine raonlhs
old ; she is charming, can stand alone
already, without walking of courric,
has an enchanting smile; in short,
would be a companion angel for Mario.
When her tongue is loosed, I will teach
her all the little words that her baby
sister in Lo Val can say, ^'Jhnjour, ma,
i tantol, le v'la /tV and I will swing
her in a napkin; in short, I will do
cver}'thing I cixn to make her another
Marie, her faithful and bewitching like-
ness.

I have not yet written to my .sister.
I shall do so this evening with exhor-
U^tiona and entreaties. I low happy
it would make me to see a firm friend-
ship grow up between M:ylanie de La
Morvonnais and Eugi'^nie ! those two
\ 80 formed for mutual uuderstand-

ing, and to d«w forth
sweetness from eacli oil
Offer my homage tc
I hope, soon call my sii
win the same title fron
between you and me, n
Countless kisses to Mar
get me, I bez, when you
dreux and St. Mala
quesnel and Fran9ois.

At the time the follow in
ten, the pernicious styl
which it satirizes wa
France. To-day, when
teem with wbrks of the
fo4ir that the alle;rory r
less favor among Attn
than it would have a
years ago.

MAUUICK DE IJUfiniN T«l
MUUVoNXAI

Paris, Febi
I fear me much that
May will bring us sno'
of roses.

When I left you, den
solitude was just ready
into flowers and verdui
dening fruit walls in yoi
the little chilly shnibs
sun, were trusting their
in all confidence, to tli
gentle winter, smiling u|
the grace of spring. 'J
stretches over your slop
ping almost into the si
lo-jk of life and gladness
on as spring-time <1 raw-
sticky, oval buds ul* tht*
imt, glistened in tht; sun
sharp and slim, pricked i
with |)ert vivacity, even tl
oak buds were beginnin
bunches at the end of the
} et the oak leaves out hi
forest-trees. Wo saw
shoots of undergrowth
the red tint that coloi>
awak(^ning of vegetal ioi
were purling through tl
stead of sap. The gra;
way up through the bed \
and withered vegetation

Ckniui in a Parutan Juie.

691

nil, was bordering the pathd,
ding a velvet carpet in every
:ked with the enamel of a
£aster buds and daisies,
ig was gay in preparation for

feast of nature. Oh! if
le, swallow, oriole, and spar-
r all this, how they would be-
elves to fly dulcesque revisere
may be that their European
lave sent messengers to tell
everything is ready for their
woods, groves, hedge, and
t seeds and berries will come
it, morning and evening, the
whirling in myriads in the
the rising and setting sun ;*
lovely here, and they must
oe to enjoy the glorious fes-
lon't know that our domestic
; paid this attention to their
brethren, but at least they
n themselves up to joy and
in awaiting their return. Do
imber, Ilippolyte, liow the

whistle, the gay, sweet
the thrush, or the twitter of
n perched on the top of a
1 to beguile us from our
ipting us forth to pleasant

[is your Thebaid, as jonfiaW
y before I left you, full
th and animation, vivid
ig sap and the labor of
I. To-day I will wager

eruption of leaves and
far advanced, that the birds
ng about in search of moss,
y feathers, and bits of down,
ou are wandering in spring
der the first shade of your
rees. But, my friend, are
ering serenely on these fair

Does it never occur to you
may be all a stratagem of
id that the old despot may
ceuvred, merely to draw out
md blossom, and kill (j|fm
baleful breath? Do you

(hat thus the acme may be
f our delusions? What if
r, perfumed air turned to a
I ; if a black, sharp cold con-

densed all this living sap, this fecondi -
ty now gushing through the veins of
nature ; if the frost crystallized your
woods and their tender leaflets; if
your little eddying brooks were to
clasp in ice the flower, stems, and
stalks of herbs that grow upon their
beds and borders ; if, instead of night-
ingales and singing-birds from southern
shores, you should see triangles of
long-necked geese and swans pouring
down from the north, and files of those
ducks that we used to hear cutting the
clouds with whistling wings on De-
cember evenings ; if the exterminator,
winter, were to kill in one night all
these first-born of the year ; in short,
if your ThebaYd were to turn into a
Siberia, what would become of your
dreams of plenty, fruits, and fiowers,
soft siestas under the shade of a tree,
songs on the sea-shore, and of that
whole existence, nourished upon sun-
light, gentle breezes, and sweet odors,
that you lead in your dear wilderness ?
If yon had power over nature, I
should say to you : " Give your gar-
dens and woods and birds a lesson of
wisdom. Bid those buds that I sar?
gaping in the sunshine to hold back
well in their envelope the leaves en-
trusted to their care, scare them with
the rigors that may surprise them ; the
brightest sun is a deceiver. Put them
on their guard against the wiles of a
fair day, teach them to be austere, and
tell them the thousand tales you know
of flowers that have crumbled into
dust because they heeded the lures of
a passing breeze or of a glowing sun-
benm. Tell them that, if perchance a
few be saved amid the general havoc,
they will one day bear shrivelled,
meagre, tasteless fruit that no fair
hand shall ever gather, and that shall
wither on the branch or fall a prey to
the vile appetite of insects. Tell them
that their thin and pallid foliage shall
draw disdain upon them from the pant-
ing traveller, the young maidens, and
the winged musicians that take refbge
under their shade to rest or dance or
sing. Men will take them for useless
cumbercrs of the earth, and one day

692

Gemui in a Pariiian Auie.

perhaps the axe will be laid at their
root." As to the birds, the best advice
you can give them is, to le^ve their
brothers in exile until the first day of
true spring shines. It is better to bear
banirihm(>nt a little longer than come
home to find their country the wretched
slave of winter. Let your birds beware
how they recall their brethren or begin
to build their own nests. The brood
would not prosper ; the poor mothers
would shiver on their eggs, and the
bitter cold, stealing under tlnnr wings,
would kill the chicks in the shell,
despite tlie wannth of the maternal
basom. Oh ! if you had i)owcr over
nature, what a discourse I would send
you for j'our Tliebaid, to save it from
the s(^ductions of this perfidious spring
whose perils I know so well.

Do you tjike all this seriously, my
friend ? I foar not, and that you will
dismiss it with a smile, as the prattle
of a chihl. 1 even fear that you may
ivgjinl my letter as very eccentric, and
say to yourself: ^ What nonsense is
this ? Talking of woods and (lowers
to a hennit ; wandering on into homi-
lies addressed to binls and flowers,
when he is writing from Paris, and
not one word of what is stirring in the
worhl ! Hon
the dramas and romances of last
rear!*' My i^iend, restrain your
wRith, and contain yourself long
f'uough to hear my n^asona.

Horace said: "At Rome I prate of
Tiber, and at Tiber I prate of Rome."
Dcm't imagine thai my taste is light
agd changeable as the wind, and thus
t explain to yourself my long tirades
on your solitude. When 1 wiis in
your Thebaid, did I ever speak re-
gretfully of the joys of Paris ? Did
i not, on tlie contrary, say always that
a city life is repugnant to my taste,
and that I care not at all for any pleas-
ui-es to be enjoyed hen*.? Don't you
remember how the little rougli huts
of your tidesmen used to excite my
(^nvy, and that I used to have dreams
of hollowing out a cool, dark grotto in
tho heart of a rojk hi one of your

creeks, and lettinji; my life glide ai
in the contemplation of the vast oct:
like a sea-god ? If you recall all t
you'll easily understand why in P;
I talk of the country and forget Pa
Indeed, you will see that it coqdoi
otherwise ; for liaving said to the fiei
as you know,

" I.C corps I'en va, mala I* catir toiu dnoNiv.

my discourse must turn on tliem, a
I can only live in this mad tornado
Paris as not belonging to it.

If you know me well, these reasc
will more than suffice to make j
understand tho beginning of my 1
t?r. But will you be able to res
the perpetual impulse that maki's r
look for mysteries in the clearest tliin;
so insatiable is your ta^te for diviiiin;
No; you will look under the natui
sense of my wonls. and think y
have surprised a sly meaning, crow
ing like a serpent under flower*. 1
neath my sentences, which bri»:it
only sweet images of spring. 1
not afraid of your discov»*ring so
|K)litical allusion in them, for ynu i
too solitary, and hold yourself too ran
aloof from such things tor that 11
to mreur to you. But, if v«>iir e;
turn from the arena of poliiie<i. tl
will settle on the noble fifld of liitr
doctrines; and because Litelythoc
bat has grown hot, and the noise ot*
fnelf'ie is resoundhig far and wide. ;
will f mcy that I am a passionate ?]
tator of the struggle, amusing my^
with winding the opposing jviny
subtle mocking allegories. L?t
tell you that this inteq>retation,
any simihir one given to my idyl
the prt»C'>eious spring, misses its a
that my idyl veils no satire ; and l
if it seems to you the least io
world insidious or guileful. *tis o
because you've breathetl your (
malice u|>on the innocent thin?.
n^p^{, it comes merely to discou
with you about natun* ; and what (
be more natural? Know that ne
has a ray of sunlight shone diro

• FroUMrt (manascrlpl notey.

Oemui in a Parisian Auie.

698

room wbcre I live ; I receive

by repercussion. Toward
he sun strikes some garret
s opposite that send across
I few pale reflections, without
or cheerfuhiess. like the rays
ap ; and even this vague, Lin-
l light vanishes in a quarter
>u r. These are the beams that

my eyes, accustomed to the
overflowing liberality of a
I sky. A narrow, sombre
ird, where there's not a blade
I growing in the cracks of the
Qt, nor a flower-pot on a win-
to smile upon me — this is the
to which I am reduced; I,
many, many times have scal-
you your rocks and downs and
», whence our eyes embraced
ine expanse of ocean, the
)us indentures of your coast,
I wide fields all green with
nd flax. And now that I've
rom these fair heights into a
it hardly admits the light of
you suppose I shall not try to
r again these charms in im-
n, or that I shall talk to you
bing but yourself and your
? And you, .you cynical re-
rould envenom these sweet,

recollections, and find some
I or another in the images of
among which I seek recrea-
3ut as I have every reason to
that you are not attending to
are still working to disentangle
iphors, let us see if perchance
an make anything out of my
08 spring, and to what allu-
in be turned.

sted as you are in literary
and attentive to the dislurb-
at have risen up lately among
lors, I am sure that it will
>ng before the facile literature
> your mind. Then youwill
lu have the clew, and with
ead you'll plunge into the
I of my supposed allegory,
to emerge maliciously tri-
; and content. I allow that,

ftoy extiBordinary flights,

imagination might pass from the
buds, opening prematurely on the
faith of a brilliant winter sun, to this
young literature, which has burst into
blossom before its time, and innocently
exposed itself to the returns of fVost
that I predict to your woods and groves.
But, my friend, will you, who rejoice
so aixlently at sight of an almond-tree
in flower, will you reproach severely
these trusting souls that have opened
in the broad-day light and displayed
with touching faith their treasures to
the graces of hidaven ? Blame rather
the burning sun of our day, and the at-
mosphere all charged with fatal heat,
which have hastened this development
and perhaps reduced the harvest of
our age to a few ears.

And the trees whose blossoms are
only bom to die, and those that bear
bitter fruits which no one will ever
pluck, or will gather only to throw
away — ah ! you'll not have much trou-
ble in seeing in them the emblems of
the many authors who have appeared
once and vanished for ever ; the many
authors whose books, distasteful to a
few grave judges, are welcomed by
seekers after novelty and romance
readers ; and who, having filled these
vain souls with vain ideas, often smk
into the well of oblivion with hands
relaxed by the lethargy that comes
from dull satiety.

Will you have it that the trees shun-
ned by travellers, young maidens, and
birds figure those renowned books*
worthy of their fame as works of art,
which do not contain a grain of the hid-
den manna, nor one of the sweet, benefi-
cent thoughts that nourish the soul
and relax it after fatigue ? — books that
maidenly hands dare not touch, and
that put to flight everything fresh and
innocent — a thought to make one die
of shame and grief! Will you have
it so? I yield the point with good
grace, for in truth my thoughts bear
your interpretation as well as if I had
really hidden it therein, and I will fol-
low you no further in your suspicious
investigations, feeling sure that my
text wUl not sulfer vkdenoe from yoOf

694

Creniui in a Paririan Attic,

1 ".

i ■ V

and that you will go on to the end
without losing your way,

"What conclusion do you draw from
all this '\ First, that, resolved to en-
tor the lists, I am preparing in secret
my lance and chariot, and kindling my
wrath. But are my peaceful inclina-
tions unknown to you, or the weakness
of my arm and my very doubtful
counige? I a combatant! Just re-
member tlmt the least tumult scares
and routs mc like a flying prey, and
that ray strength bravely suffices to
drag me out of danger ; so how could
it drng me in f

In the second place, you will sup-
pose that I am nursing an aversion for
the new school and calling out for a
classical reform. M. Nisard, of course,
does not wish the new school to perish,
but to amend its ways ; and it is with
that belief, and, T dare to say, on that
condition, that I pray ardently for the
success of tiie campaign he is about to
open. The Catholic faitii would never
allow me to sympathize entirely with
a sceptical and fatalist literature, that
sets no value ujion morality. But, on
the otiier hand, the same faith makes
nie feel a certain interest in it ; lor is
not this disorderly, frantic new school
a truant from our fold ?

No, dear friend, I am not a prey to
devouring aiiirer ; but I must groan
in solitude over the wanderings dt' this
literature, which has forgotten the
home and the teaching of its father, and
has so hopelessly lost itself, until the
lust and most terrible romance, in that
style, would now be its own history.
Amid these sighs there come to mo u
few reflections upon the cause of the
evil and the means to remeily it ; and
that is what I meant to announce to
you in this incoherent letter, in which
I beg you to see only a whimsical
prelude of my imagination, turning, as
it always does, toward you.

MArUICK DE Cl'^IRIN TO M. H. DE LA
MOKVOXNAIS, AU VAl. SAINT I'OTAX.

Au PARC, July 9th, 1834. ^

I wrote to you on leaving Paris

a. short letter, of which I begged you

not to take any notice. T(
lIip|)olyte, when I have i
leisure, and the untroublec
the country is around me
our talk with every intent
rying my confidence to
limits ; that is, to the poii
shall begin to fear that m}'
bores you.

I announced to you a c(
count of my aflairs and r
during these five mouths (
I am going to begin and yc
ten. You know what my 1
when I left Lo Val ; I fell
taste for literary life, the pr
a journalist smiled upon mc
hugging some bright phantc
of tiie future that had sprur
imagination ; and in sjilte of
that you know I mingled wii
I had given myself up to
witii intenst; ardor. Fur, ]
you, en passant, that I thr
impetuously into every lu
that can modify my exist
whether a walk is piY)|K>H^
the next day, or wheih«-r
** To-morrow your destiny i?
pletely altered," I fe«*f e
cited, and rush to meet the
with eiualimiMUienee. A
tivity of tlioii^ht possesses
shake myself and champ i
cause time prevents nit; fr
at a bound what I am ii
vouring with my eyes. Yo
agine that, with a soul subj
ardent cravings, I reached
of enthusiasm and seizt-d tl
ist's pen with a quiver of del
as usual, my enthusi:isni di
long, and dilBcullies, |>eraoi
as external, made theni?eh
saw the entrance lo the jour
and barred by that selfish
guards the gates of every pi
the approach of poor you
who come to Paris full t
hopes. Catholic France
milted me w^iihin its cirvh
journal, notwithstanding th
of its directors, could not
needB. My article } were fa

/./

Gennu in a Parinan Auie.

695

ceived,bnt the narrow frame of the jour-
nal cut mo off from frequent contribu-
tions, and in four months I had only
appeared four times.

In the mean time expenses were not
behindhand, and, although I lived in a
very small way, my expenditure was
lai;ge in comparison to my resources.
I was exhausting fruitlessly time and
mooey, my own patience and my fa-
thers. For several months I per-
UBted in this disposition, holding my
giound against adverse fortune in or-
der to save appearances and not yield
the field without making fight. But
at last everything went so badly that
I had to decide promptly upon a plan
npcestedby the extremity of the case.
If I had Ix^en alone, I don*t know what
would have become of me in my utter
fiukire of strength and courage ; but
God, as if for my preservation, has
placed around my^ wavering soul
friends who prop 2(nd sustain it, re-
storing me to myself with touching
•olicitade. I went to Paul, and laid
before him the whole story of my
punfiil position. I proposed to him
the terrible enigma of my destiny and
tthed him for a solution. Without an
cfefc he untied the Grordian knot with
t^ words: "If you leave Paris,
•!» future will slip through your
l^nds. Do not let go your hold at
«y cost Make your father feel that
™ concerns your whole life, that our
Ittt effort may save everything, and a
tot refusal may ruin everything."
^ thereupon we set to work to
®*pute article by article all the ne-
**itiea to be satisfied, all the debts to
^^paid, all the most threatening pos-
■•WKtiw of the future ; and the whole
J^nt,aniounting to the sum of twelve
'^it^ francs, I sent to my father,
T^ a petition written by my cousin
* «te to give it more weighL

^ the end of a fortnight my father
'^'^inied it with his approbation and a
P^ of the sum I had asked. What
■JPpinegs it was to go in search of
*|^ that I might thank him, triumph
*wi him, overwhelm him with joy for
^IPfl^t 1 knew his kindness too
vdltD doabt that he would share all

my transports. I was not mistaken ; his
rejoicings over my success were sweet-
er to me than my own, and I had the
inestimable pleasure of seeing it com-
municated to my other friends, Fran-
yoifl, Elic, etc. How delightful it is to
receive such proofs of pure, heartfelt
sympathy ! In short, my dear Hippo-
lyte, here I am launched upon the
waves, provisioned with money and
courage, and walking with assured
step to meet the future ; I foci as if a
light were guiding me, and as if 1 were
advancing toward an unknown goal.
For the pixisent this is what I mean to
do : I shall spend the end of August
and the whole of September at the
College StanisLis, where I shall have a
class during vacation : when the term
begins, I shall establish myself in the
college if there is a place for me ; if
not, I can have quite an advantageous
situation at my cousin's, by helping
him to keep his littlo pension d'eleves.
This is an abridged history of these
last five months ; it gives only a super-
ficial view, but you are well enough
acquainted with my inner life to under-
stand the course of my thoughts during
the time. Here 1 am at rest, dreaming
of the future, giving myself up to the
pleasures of friendship and conversa-
tion, and drinking in the country-life
and all the dear idleness that one can
never fully enjoy except in the fields.
Our solitude is so profound that we do
not even know the result of the elec-
tions. Another ignorance, harder to
bear, is concerning all that is going on
among our friends and affairs in Paris.
I know nothing more' than when I left
them, and it is a very long time also
since I heiird from my sister.

Pray, present my respectful com-
pliments to Madame Morvonnais, and
my remembrances at Mordreux and
Saint- Iklalo. I am going to write to
Amedee. Ask I^rie, who can answer
me now, if she remembers M. Guorln,
who sends her a thousand kisses.

TO M. H. DE LA MOUVON'NAIS.

Paris, Sept. 21st, 1834.
I hare just received your mann-
script, my dear friend, and the letter

6miu$ %n a Parigian Auie.

it enclosed ; it has only this moment
arrived, and I write before reodinj^,
that my despatch may be ready for
Paul, who leaves djiy after to-morrow
in the morning. You are to possess
this inestimable treasure of friendship,
freshness of soul, and wnrmth o^ heart.
He will rest from his busy, devote<l
life in the fair sanctuary of peace and
friendship, of whicli you are the priest;
he will bathe in the current of those
easy, limpid days that murmur beneath
your roof. What an interruption and
vacuum in my life will be between
his departure and the daiy of his re-
turn with the other brothers ! What
will become of me in my tf/iw/M. To-
morrow evening we shall " have our
farewell soirie. Do you know what
evenings we have now and then ?
We meet at dinner -time and have a
cosy dinner, intimate talks, long wan-
dering walks under the chestnut- trees
of the Tuilerics, through the p<»rfume
of orange-blossoms and flower-beds in
the gleams of the sotting sun. These
talks come and go between Paris and
Le Val, fiY>m one friend io another,
from present to future, from melan-
choly to the liver, phiiosopliy to [MnMrv,
weak sadness to finn and manly n so-
lutions, from one thing in liti; to an-
other. To paint these conv<rs:ilii»ns
for you would be like trving to n-ndi-r
with a style the colors of twilight, tin*
vague nonchalance of the breezts. or, a
still more difficult task, whtit coni»s
more sotlly shaded to our hearts. To-
morrow will ]ni the farewell evening,
the close of these melodious evening.^.
How many things come to an end
under our eyes ! I will not speak
of my own aifairs ; Paul will tell you
when^ I stand, and how my liop«»s ebb
and flow, rising to the chair of rhetoric
of Juilly, and fulling to a little seh<Nd-
room. He will tell yon about my
firm resolutions and the manly eflorts
of my will to seize the empire ol" my
soul. It would be a long story to
n^.lato the history of my interior i*ev-
olutions, changes of government, civil
warSy anarchy, despotism, gleams of
liberty. These are annals that write

themselves in mde cbaracten
the soul and in wrinkles on ihi
Sometimes I feel that I can n
like an old empire. O my ch
hennit, my sea-swan, my poet
opher, how shall I express th
bie there is in my aoul at this i
of plea'ture and pain, the polln
jo3'ful and sad tears that TUil
my eyes and roll over esiel
down my cheeks? I see you
soul ; I see Paufs departuiv i
brace him in farewell ; I see I
your meeting, the charm of y«
the isi:>lation of mine, and my 1<
after my d<;ar Brittany. My
sometimes the soul wander*
sight, and is restless and troub
the sea.

MAUUKB DE CVKUIX TO M. H.
MoUVdNNAIS.

Pauls, Ovt. lOih, 1

At last, my «lear fri«MuL I

with you, I can open my he:i

conflde my soul to ytm ; a t]

privilege, perhaps you think. I

luckily I cannot ke«'p it tomvsi

day, then, this gray Sunday, a ea

a day of decline ipiite suit(*d to

of leaves and the cmigRition ol

my busy life, heat«Hl with a.'tioi

es to iveover its stn»ngth. and

iis eonfidcntial intercourse s-i 1

teri'upt*'*! ; to give itself up tt»

nius of autumn and lend it» ea

memories whose rustling we I

distinctly on certain days; a

laden with impressions, nMuiiii?

and autumnal melodies, to n-ti

some hinely comer far from <

of interruption, and |wur it«-

to you. But 1 have Irft beh

the mystery tluit 1 wish to uii

you : .1// bttsf/ //f>, hrtifff with

Wliat I 1 a man of U'*li«m I

potent voice must have bade i

up my bird and walk ! Tiie il

Paul left me I wastogoto Ve

where I had n*aso!i to hope

have a place as teaeher in an

tion. I went to Versailles, a

was what I found : four hounc

Getnut in a Pariiian Attic.

697

ing every day, des salies eTHudes, rec-
reations, walks with the pupils, and a
saJaiy of 400 francs, llie position I
had hoped for in the College Stanislas
having failed me also, there remained
only my last plan, that of going to my
oonsin's. Bat, as if to complete and
crown the lesson that she was resolved
to give me, fortune decreed that my
eoasin should all of a sudden he ahso-
lately without scholars. Thus for a
time was I trampled heneath the feet
of destiny. Then indeed I had time
to write to you, I had a superabun-
daoce of leisure. To punish me for
my sins — me, so long a rebel against
the ancient condemnation to labor,
God took from me the possibility of
doing anything. He turned aside and
removed from my reach all working
tools at the moment when my hands
were eager for them. Leisure on every
side, far stretching, never ending, con-
demned to bury myself in unlimited
l^are as in a doleful desert. Why
did I not write to you when my whole
life lay before me at my own disposal ?
My friend, I had nothing to tell but
miflfortunes, and my recital would only
have grieved you. I preferred wait-
ing for the wind to blow away these
Uack days and clear my atmosphere.
The tempest was short ; the sky of my
fittle world is tinged anew in the east,
■nd it is by the light of its first gleams
tliat I write to you. The professor of
the fifth dass at Stanislas asked leave
of absence for a month ; I have taken
Ua place and shall have 100 francs for
the work. I am looking for private
tec o u s and have found several. Class-
es and recitations occupy my day from
Uf-past seven in the morning until
lalf-past nine in the evening ; I sleep
•Iwy cousin's, the college dinner serves
Be for breakfast, and in the evening I
8^ a dinner for twenty-four sous like
^^chtfflBil. Such has been my life for
*• l>«t three weeks ; a sudden revolu-
"OQ in my existence, an abrupt transi-
™* fiwn careless revery to breathless
^^"OQ* An urgent pressure, a little
^^^f a few grains of irritating self-
■'^lapply freBh strength to my soul,

which is exhausted at the first tug.
However, I must say tliat in the deep-
est and most hidden recesses of my
being, in the sanctuary of the will, lives
a resolution, that is, I believe, firm and
steady, to sacrifice half my existence
to external things, in order to insure
repose to the inner man ; and therefore
I have decided to prepare myself for
the agregation (corresponds to the ex-
pression, master of arts). I have ex-
plained to you the facts, accidents, and
external circumstances ; let us go deep-
er. Latin, Greek, and all the bustle
of laborious life, absorb a certain por-
tion of my thoughts; but it is that
floating and least valuable portion
which, without regret, I let flutter in
the wind like the fringe of a cloak.
These are the waves that break upon
the l)cach; the sand drinks them in,
men gather their spoils, the sea tosses
them to any one who wants them. Thus,
as I tell you, my mind near its shores
is occupied by the cares and duties of
active life ; but far out at sea nothing
touches it, nothing passes over it, noth-
ing is lost from its waves, except by
the continual evaporation of my intel-
ligence drawn up by some unknown
star.

It will soon be a year since from
the heights of Crohen I hailed Le
Yal, lying all golden on the hillside
beneath the beautiful autumn sun.
Dear anniversary, full of gentle mel-
ancholy like the season that brings it.
Every morning, on the way to college,
I cross the Tuilcries where the ground
is covered with the heaps of autumn
leaves, the wind sighs tlirough the
branches as in a desert, and, like the
ring-doves that build their nests in
ancient chestnut-trees, a few of the
poems of solitude flutter about in
these city groves. Sometimes the
murmur of a breeze among the boughs
recalls to me the sound of the sea, and
I pause to possess myself of the de-
lusion, and isolate myself with it from
the whole world : these are the waves,
I am walking along the shore with
you, wandering over headlands in the
evening twilight; I am sitting on La

698

Genius in a Pariiian Ailie.

Rocht-Alain. Then when I fed the
illusion 13 fading away, I resume my
walk, all full of emotion, all full of
you, and cry like the Toung Bard:
*' Good God, give us back the sea !"

HAUlltCB DE Oir^UIX TO 31. H. DE LA.

MOIlvox^^u^*.
Paris, Dec. 5th, 1835.
Tour impatience to know how I
dispose of my time, and all the turn-
ings of the roads I am following, that
you may go with me in thought, roused
in me a very delightful feeUng, and one
that does not ea^sily find expression in
words. But your idea of my life is
quite too elevated ; you attribute to it
a dignity with which it is not invested
when you speak of my sufferings and
the courage with which I bear them.
No, my drar Ilippolyte, my lot is not
80 beautiful as you would make it
out. The difficulties of my life con-
sii^t in a ft^v material fatigues, to
which the body eiwily becomes hard-
ened, even deriving a certain strength
from contending with them ; and in the
distaste for a profession which is con-
quering my antipathy through the slow
but irresistibU* action of habit, which
tames the wildest spirit.-, and reduces
them to complete submission almost
without their knowledge, ever^'tliiiig
becomes deadened, everything dis-
«)lv('3 insensibly. The firm(»st revo-
lutions yield each day something to
the progress of the hours. All re-
bellions ai-e absorbed again by de-
grees into the common soul. All
things lie ujK>n a d»*olivily which op-
poses itself to continued ascent. I
have chosim my course in life ; I
come and go in the leading-strings
cf habit, keefung my mind in the
middle of the road, restraining it
Ciirefiilly from those thoughts that
would draw it aside, and mar tlie
blessed monotony which lends some-
thing to the pettiest existence. Be-
ing reduced to this state, I have no
need of counige. I required, of course,
some resolution to afrivc at it, but it
was not worth much and was borrow-
ed from circumstances.

These arc the principal featui
my cLiy : I set forth on foot a
en o'clock to give a lesson in the i
borliood; then I go to the C
Stanislas, at the other end of
and remain there until six i
evening. That leaves me an
and a lialf to dine and retrac
steps again to the further oxii
of Paris, where my Lut lesson j
me, which ends at half past eigh;.
liberty claims p<».-?se3sion of tirj i
Custom having worn away the :i
ties of this life, only one det'ci
mains, but a ca[»itnl one; and t]
the difficulty of using the t'lu;.'!
of time that are lert to inu afii-r
the larger |)ortions for studii"^
are to raise me above, my pr.* mi
dition. How to make the i-nrt-
self subsistence agree with ilk-'
acting lal)ors seems to me a-i i:i
ble ])robh:ni in Paris. Bui tiii)>'
fertile in good advice, and s.»;ni i
unties knots s> easily tlial wliuM
dctied a sword, that I a wail 'v.<
tion in |Mitieiiee. You wi>ii iji
compose, to unveil the gii'iji v
y<iu think I possess. My Iri'ii'i,
interrupt the cnirse of a wisi* n
ti(m and mar a work that is ^^
of formation and so co.-lly ? L*
wat<*rs flow in their natunil hi
course, following their tnimpiil •!. •:
in a narrow, na!n<'!ess ImmI. yi\
is a domestic animal, and i-iiii;:.^
ven t u re ; t hat of t he 1 i t e iiiry 1 ; To i
peeially n'pugnant to its hu:r...ir,
excites its o>ntempl, sp^'akiiii: wi;
ihf least self-sullieieiiey. I .-.r <
sioa in the care<*r. both in i;> t--
and in the juize we set'k, fbiirji
ten with the venom of a s -.^r:
cule. Looking at litu wiih tli' n
eye. in tin* si*veiv. mono-uri'i.i'
pause she pn^scnts to so;ih' t'l'
seems to me men' eonforniriNK^ t-
int«*rest of the mind, a! id ni;):o li
cordanee with the laws of wi^
than unceasingly applying onuV
to the prism of art and [Hutry.
fore I embrace art and pofjir}*. I
to have them tlcmonsii':iii.'d \w:
eternal solemnity and certain iv

Cfmnus in a Parisian AUie.

699

They are two doubtful pban-
id wear a perfidious gravity
eeala a mockmg laugh. That
will not bear.

1 TO MLLE, EUG]6nie DE OUfiRIN.

Paris, Feb. 9th, 1836.

Madame (nameillejjible)

re yesterday. She is to leave
I a fortnight, and offered very
ly to take charge of my com-
to Gaillac. I shall profit by
ness to send you what you ask,
ret neck ribbons, the net for
ir (but, pray, why have you
this very ugly coiffure ?) and
that Mimi asked me to send
hope the little articles I send
you both and fulfil your ex-
IS exactly. But why be afraid
indiscreet in drawincr upon
ft a little 1 Think, dear friends,
im your treasurer here, and
wish you to consider me as
f you had reminded me sooner
jloaks, you would bave had
w. I would gladly have de-
etting one for myself until
r, and should not now be re-
the fact that my shoulders are
ered, while I know that cold
p air are penetrating to yours
go to Andillac. I am quite
i with myself for not having
of it. Am I not very un-
, never beforehand with any
waiting to be urged out of
3ks like indifference ? Are
oyed with me for this, and
u ever judge me by mere ex-
igns? Never, I am sure,
e too much penetration to de-
urselves for a moment about
tion, wben it is most bidden
ungainly.

glad to know that the union
IS been so long uncertain is at
red. I have no doubt that all
litions of happiness will be
it, if only health can be add-
in.

me of papa^ journey is draw-

From a distance it is diffi-

idge his coarse correctly ; the

moment itself must have arrived before
one can appreciate it truly.

I am trying to find out at this mo-
ment what I may count upon in the
future for the accomplishment of my
dearest hopes.

The last sentences in this letter re-
fer to Guerin's marriage with Mile,
de Gtjrvainj which is so fully describ-
ed in Eugenie's letters from Paris that
it needs no comment here. Then fol-
lowed a few months of tranquil success,
a lingering illness at Le Cayla, a hap-
py deatli-bed; and our story ends, as
all true stories must end, in a grave-
yard. By the gateway of that old
cemetery of Andillac, where Eugenie
sunned herself one day sitting on a
tombstone, while waiting for her turn
to go to confession, is a white marble
obelisk surmounted by a cross. CaK
oline placed it there as her last gifl to
her husband, and it bears these words :

Here resU my friend

Who was my husband

Only eight months. Farewell.

Pierre Oeorf^e Maurice

De Guerin du Coyla.

Born August 4th, 1810,

Died at U Cayla

July 19th, 1839.

Close by stands the little church
whose chief ornament is a delicately
wrought statue of the Blessed Virgin,
prescBted by Queen Marie Amelie at
Eugenie's petition. The belfry is
crumbling to decay, and tlie tottering
porcli under which the dove of Le
Cayla passed so often appeals pitiful-
ly to those who have a zeal for the
preservation of Grod's house.

A record has been made of Eu-
genie's daily life by one who had hour-
ly opportunities of watching her ac-
tions, and we cannot refrain from lay-
ing it before our readers. Nothing
concerning the sister of Maurice can
be inappropriate in an article devoted
to him, and it will be well to see how
holy and regular a life may be led in
the world without singularity or nar-
rowness.

*< She rose at six in the morning when
she was not ill. After dressing she

700

Gemiui in a Frisian Auie.

made a vocal or mental prajcr, and
never failed when she was in a town
to hear mass at the nearest altar. At
Le Cayla, after saying her morning
prayer, she went into her father's
room, either to wait upon him, or to
curry his breakfast in and read to him
while he took it. At nine o'clock she
went back to her room and followed
mass spiritually. If her father was
well and did not need her assistance,
she occupied herself with reading and
writing or with sewing, of which she
was very fond (fairy in hands as she
was in soul) ; or in superintending
the household, which she directed
with exquisite taste and intelligence.
At noon she went io her room and
said the Angelus ; then came dinner.
Wlien it was over, if the weather was
good, she took a walk with her father,
or sometimes made a visit in a village
if there was any invalid to see or any
afflicted person to console. If she re-
sumed reading on her return, she took
up her knitting also and knitted while
slie read, not admitting even the sha-
dow of idle hours. At three she went
to her i-oom, where she generally n»a<l
tlie Visit to the Blessed Sacrament by
St. Alphonsus Liguori, or the life of
that day's saint. This ended, she
wrote until five o'clock if lier father
did not call her to be with him. At
^\ii she said her rosary and meditated
until supper time. At seven she talked
with tlic rest of the family, but never
left off workii!g. After supper she went
into the kitchen for evening prayers
with the servants or to teach the cate-
chism to some little ignorant child, as
often happened during the vineyard
times. Tlie rest of the evening pass-
ed in working, and at ten o'clock she
went to bed, after reading the subject
of meditation for the next day, in oi*-
der to sleep upon some good thought.
And, finally, it should be added that
every month she prepared herself for
death and chose some saint whom she
loved best that she might imitate his
virtues. Every week she went to
communion, and even oilener during

the last years of her life, wlien
failing health would allow her tc
to the church, which was at gome
tance from Le Cayla."

The hour of release came at la«
her too, after a lingering ilhie?
which we possess few detaib. .
receiving the last sacraments she
a key to her sister, saying : "* In
drawer you will find S4>me p
which you will bum; tliey ai
vanity." She died in 1848 oi
last day of the beautiful moni
Mary, which she and !Mimin
always observeil with such tund
votion in the chamhrette.

** All mu ended now, the bope and tbe fev

•OITOW,

All t)io acliing of heart, the iv^Uess unMli«fi

ill?.
All thfi dull, deep pidn, and ooosUnl abs

patience."

The dear old father survived
angel, his second self and much n
only six months. GrcmlK»rt di
1850. Three graves now s^un
^laurice's, and on one of them. ^
is already reganlefl with \v\ie\
by the country peo))le, is a w<
cross, bearing a circular nitnl
that encloses a virginal crown
these few words :

" Kug^nlc dcGucrln, duil Maj SM. W'

** Soft as the opaU of the ei
dawn, and sad us the gleam-: tk
away so quickly in the twiliizh
will be, for those who read h'
Aurora of her brothers d-tv ; b
Aurora who has tears loo I
these tears fertilize the gnive
which she wept, and make tlio :
of glory spring up ran-r ihaii
now for jMK'ts ! The niateriali:
our times has thickened the ea
hard to break at all times. We
there is a flower thai pierces the
but one that can penetrate ilii
of an age devoted to matter is
cr to find." (Jules Barbey d'Aur*
unimblished notice of Madcmoi^
Uuerin.)

&fraeuM and ^tna.

701

From The Month.

SYRACUSE AND JETNA.

ISTS beDt on the ascent of
ave Catania at the end of the
iight street which terminates
Piazza Giomi. The ascent
t once. On both sides of the
iiriant groves of orange, citron,
and carouba trees alternate
eyards and conifields rich in
lise of future crops. Yet all
Dving on the lava, and lava
ou at every turn : tlic walls,
1 with the ** Bourgainviller,"
lon-fiower, and beautiful yellow
e still of lava ; so are the pretty
id the riant farm-houses and
yes in the vineyards — all are
it. The streets through the
are paved with it. There is a
illegorical beauty and poetical
n the way in which the great
enemy has been, as it wci-e,
id and subdued — at least for a
id forced to repair the tenible
it has wrought. As the road
higher and higher, the vegeta-
inishes, and you come at last
I waste of rock sprinkled with
id dwarf oak. A twelve-miles'
ought our travellers to Nico-
tre their first visit was paid to
. old professor and geologist,
timellaro, from whom every
assistance is obtained for the
* the mountain, which is, as it
h his child and his home. lie
t good-natured and agreeable
f whose whole life has been
to this cme great interest, and
latest pleasure seems to be to
lers share in the knowledge
himself possesses. His house
letim of curiosities, and con-
irefuUy arranged collection of
(eologftcal phenomena of the
b AoiODg other things, he

showed the party a ptarmigan which
had been " caught sitting " by the lava
stream, and had been instantly petri-
fied, like Lot 8 wife ! the bird preserv-
ing its shape perfectly. The village
of Nicolosi is composed of low houses
built up and down a long straggling
street, with a fine church in the centre.
Horse-races were going on the day of
our travellers' arrival, and causing im-
mense excitement among the people,
who were all in the street in holiday
attire. The horses ran, as at the carnival
in the Corso, without riders, and were
excited to a pitch of madness by the
shouts of their starters and the bande'
leros stuck in their sides. Aflcr watch-
ing the races for some little time, our
travellers returned to the kind pro-
fessor's, who had seen the guides requir-
ed for their ascent of ^tna, but who ad-
vised them to delay their ex|)edition for
two or three days to allow of a greater
melting of the snow, the season being
backward, and to procure the requisite
number of mules for so laigc a party.
It was also necessary to send some one
beforehand to clear out the snow from
the Casa Inglese, the small house of
refuge which tlie professor had built on
the summit of the mountain, at the
base of the principal cone, and where
travellers rest while waiting for the
sunrise, or before commencing the last
portion of the ascent to the crater. He
is very anxious to have this house
better built and provided with more
comforts, and tried to enlist the interest
of our travellers with the English
Government in its behalf. Having
arranged everything with him, our
party retraced their steps to Catania,
having decided to visit Syracuse first,
and take ^tna on their return.
The following morning, conseqaent-

|:l

702

Sjracttsc and ^ina.

': h

ly, at half- past throe, they started for
Syraciisi', so as to arrive tl»er*i l»ofore
the great heat of the day, and also in
time for mass. A lonjr marshy plain
occupied the whole of the first stage ;
after which the road wound through
limestone rocks and rich cultivation,
till they reached the picturcjaque vil-
lage of Lentini. The lake of Lentini
id the lai^»8t in Sicily, famous for
its wild fowl, but also for its malaria.
There is a beautiful view of the little
town, with its wooded cliffs and deep
ravines, from the Capuchin convent
above. The scenery increases in
beauty as you approach Syracuse, the
road descending into deep glens full of
ilex, myrtle, oleander, anil a variety of
aromatic shrubs, and rising again over
rocky hills pcented with thyme and
every kind of wild flower. From h"nce
comes the delicious Ilybla honey,
which rivals that of Mount Ilymettus.
Over the wide downs which stn^tch sea-
ward, the picturesque town of Augusta
was seen, perched on the edge of the
broad sandy bay.

Our travellei's had cxcc^llent horses ;
so that it was not more than half-])ast
ton wh«'n tiny reached the gates of
Syracuse and found tlMMnselves in the
comfortable little hotel near the port.
One of iIkj party startt^d off at once to
find a mass ; but the ^ood people of
Syracuse anj very early in their habits,
and the l:idy wandered half over the
eity lK»tore she foinid what she sought
in the beautiluJ little church of St.
Philip, where ihere happened to be on
that day the exposition of the bles-icd
sacrament, an<l in consequJMice masses
all the morning. On her ivlurn she
found that the viear-gen«'ral hatl been
kindly sent by the archbishop to show
her the curiosities of the pla-ve. He
first took them to the temj)hi of Diana,
now converted into a private ri'sideniM*,
and of which nothing renmins to be
peen but some very anoient Doric col-
umns. From thence they proeoeded
to the world-famed fountain of Ai-ethu-
sa. The sj^ring rises from an arch in
the rock, and is protected by a bastion,
which defends it from the sea. The

papyrus grows h?rc in pre
riance, and th«* party guiln»nM'
a specimen, having first duly r
anciently saered water. Rcsuti
carriages, their kind gui«le 1
ducted them outside tlie town
teresting church and crypt of
zian, the first church of Sieily
the spot where St. Paul pn?at
ing his three days' fttxy in J
It is a simple, massive buihiii
shape of a Grei^k cross, and
the episcopal chair of St.
Here also is the tomb of the s
was the proto-martyr of Sici!
the tomb is the ru<h» slone all
St. Paul said mass. A coluni
granite is shown ns that to ^
Marzian was attached for tli(
ing previous lo his exfcnti
tinged with his blooil. T;
howevjT, is ihe most sacn^dsj
came the a|)ostUrs St. Pe»«*
Paul, with the evangelists :
and St. Luke, on their s
visits to the holy bishop. Si. '.
where also the loca^ tniditi'i
that St. Mark was nmrt\r
curious font now in the rafln
found in this crvpt. and wa-^
used for the baptism of mm
early Pagan converts. A«ij
the pLu'«! of St. Marxian's inn
The cimrch itself is built
site of an ancit»nt temph? ot"
Leading out of a si.le tloor i
trance t<> the catacoinb-i, w
more extensive than evt-n
Najdes or Rome, and alxiniid :
ian emblems : cn)ss<'s, pahn-1
the dove, and other ('atln»lif
an* rudely carved on all c)n'\
niches, with h»Te and ib-r^.*
fi'esiH) of the Blessed Virgin a
or a Greek inscription.

P^rom the catacombs our i
crossed the plain, thi<'kly stuv
ancient columns, sarenphaiii.
mains of Gn*ek and K<»mau 1
till they came to the little i
St. Nicolo. Underneath is a
with an aqueduct, leading to
amphitheatre ; the principal n
left of Ionian work in Svrn

Syraeute and JBtna.

70S

perfect preserration. Recent
tions have cleared the space, so
e seats and arena are clearlj
From the amphitheatre, a
lutes' walk leads to the Latomia
radiso— a quarry containing; in
ier recesses the famous Ear of
ius. This cay em was exca-
y the tyrant for a prison, and
tructed that the faintest whisper
e heard in the chamber above,
lie sat listening to the conversa-
his victims. It is to be sup-
that the listener, according to
rerb, rarely heard any good of
1 It is a wonderfully picturesque
he sides of the quarry being
rith fruit-trees and ferns and
3g shrubs, mingled with masses
1 rock and fragments of ancient
7. Pistols were fired off by
les to let the party hear the full
the echo, which is tremendous,
a deep spring at the further
:he cavern grew the most beau-
aiden-h&ir fern. Close by is
3ek theatre, the largest in Si-
Uowed out of the rock, and ca-
r containing more than 20,000
irs.

ming home to luncheon, the
isited on their way the Sisters
ity of St. Vincent de Paul, who
;ed in one of the fine old me-
mlaces of Syracuse, with beau-
arved windows and doorways,
s very much out of repair, and
convenient for their large or-
3. There are only si x or seven
here. Their superior is a
ig person, and only another
' one were needed in that won-
'eligious order, of thte way in
energy, zeal, and, above all, a
charity can triumph over the
^ entailed by a delicate frame
[ly constitution,
luncheon our travellers start-

I to meet Monsignor B at

ledral. It is built on the site
acient temple of Minerva, but
Q rained by modern church-
•hip and whitewash. There
fine side chapelsy however ;

one dedicated to the Blessed Sacra-
ment, the other to Sl Lucia, in which
is exposed a large silver figure of the
saint of great antiquity. The font, of
which notice has been taken above, is
of marble, supported by seven fine
bronze lions. There is a beautiful re-
naissance doorway leading to the sac-
risty. A beautiful benediction ser-
vice with litany was being sung; af-
ter which the relics and treasures were
examined, which include a beautiful
chahce of amber, cut out of one piece,
and a pastoral ring of ^reat size and
value. In the Place, or court of the
cathedral, are fourteen fine columns of
Cipollino marble, supposed to have
formed part of the ancient temple of
Ceres. Opposite the north door of the
cathedral is the museum, containing
all the antiquities lately discovered in
Syracuse and its neighborhood. The
finest is a beautiful torso, a Venus of
the best date of Greek art There are
also some very fine cameos and med-
als. The day was closed by a sweet-
ly sung benediction at the orphanage
of the Sisters of Charity.

The next morning, after a daybreak
mass at the cathedraJ, one of the party
breakfasted with the archbishop, who
afterward showed her his palace and
gardens, which are very fine. In the
latter grew the largest citrons she had
ever seen, -s^ry nearly equalling tlie
gigantic oranges at Ja£Bi. Adjoining
his garden -wall is a convent of Bene-
dictine nuns, which was likewise visit-
ed. The good-natured prefect then
insisted on taking the whole party in
his carriages to the Franciscan con-
vent of St. Lucia outside the town.
There is an interesting Norman church
attached to it, raised over the site
of the saint's martyrdom ; and a granite
column is shown as that to which she
was fastened on the occasion. Her
tomb is cut in the rock at the back of
the altar, underneath which is a fine
statue of the saint by Bernini.

From this spot a narrow lane, trav-
ersing vineyards fenced by stone walls,
leads to the convent of Sta. Maria di
Gesii, in front of which is a fine stone

ili

701

(Syracuse and^tna.

1 )

cross. PasBing by an aqueduct in
very tolerable preservation, and by a
eucccasion of old tomba cut in the cliff,
our party arrived at the Capuchin
convent — a fortified building, with
fosse and drawbridge and niachicolat-
cd battlements. A little pite at the
side led them into the Latoniio, or
quarries, from whence the stone was
t:iken to build the city. Here is one
of the most lK*nutifui spots in the neigh-
borhood of Syracuse. It is a vast pit,
about a hundred feet in depth, and
of many acres iy extent, planted with
oranges, citrons, pomegranates, ^^^^
and cypresses, with an undergrowth of
roses, arums, acanthus, ferns, and
creepers of every kind, and overrun
with ivy and wild vino. The whole
is walled in by lofty gray cliffs hung
with crijepers ; and from the midst of
this wilderness of beautiful and almost
rank vegetalion rise two tall insulated
masses of rock, with an ancient flight
of steps cut in the side of one ol* them,
but now inaccessible. The cliffs are
hollowed into vast halls or caverns,
in one of which the prefect toM our
travellers tliat he had given wfete to
Prince Alfred on his iirst visit to Syra-
cuse. The kind old monk who had
been their escort brought them fruit,
brca<l, and wine in this deliciously cool
retreat, and sat a long time talking of
the Holy Land, where he hud Ix'en,
and which he was delighted to find
Mas equally well known and appreci-
ated by his guests. Here and there,
embedded in the rocks, arc traces of
ancient sepultures; and one or two
Pix)testant epitaphs on the chffs prove
that the quarries have, even hi late
days, been us(»d for purposes of burial.
Leaving this beautiful sfiot witli
great regret, and acceding to the re-
quest of the good old monk that they
would first pray with him for a few
minutes in the church for a blcsshig
on the Holy Land Mission, our trav-
ellers visiteil one or two more of the
antiquities in the neighborhood, in-
cluding the recently excavated baths
of Diana, full of beautiful marbles and
mosaics ; the sepulchral road, the per-

pendicular sides of which an
with niches for cinerary am
tombs of Arcliimedes and Tin
and other interesting remains of
and Roman times ; af^er whic
returned once more to the city
the museum, where the coUecl
natural history luid yet to b
which contains eveiytliing mos
esting of the kind in Sicily, ai
the hbrary. The latter contain:
less treasures, of which the ni
roarkable are — a rare copy
gospel of St. John, of the tweli
tury; a Koran on paper, of
brought from £gypt by Lord I
and given by him to the C:
Landolina, who was tlic real f<
of the library ; a very fine blocl
a replica of one of those in the
library; and many beautifully
nated marly rologi«» and mi:^^al

Nothing can be kin<ler or
hospitable tlian the re-^ideiiis oi
cuse. The visit of our travellc
necessarily loo limitt.'il in p.)int <
to enable them to pmfit bv it : bul
one offen*d their carriage and
and put tiieir |Milace<, niU ti^rsim
but actually a hnirdUpositiitu,
arc still some beautiful nn.'dia^v
aces in the town, esj)ecially the !
Montalto, with its |>ointod windn
dogt4)oth moulding:^. It i>ears al^^
curious Gothic inscriptiun^. lil
houses at Avihu and with tin
1397.

A charming boating oxcursii
made by one or two of the j»art
Syracuse to the fountain of
up the river Anapus, the only :
KuroiHi where the papyrus still
wild. Nothing remains of the
of Jupiter Olympus, whicli on<
by the way, but two broken ct
But thei-e is a lovely sketch
further tm of a ruined bridge,
date-])ahn overhanging the streti
a foreground of magnificent '
vegetation of reeds, sugar-cane
thus, iris, and every kind of
plants, and which the slow p
of one's boat through the wei
ables one fully to enjoy. Th

SjfracuH andJB^xM.

705

ids into the Cjane, which is a
arer stream, but very narrow.
:he papyrus grows luxuriantly
flags and castor-oil plants. It
nt from Egypt by Ptolemy to
Elieron IT., and has flourished
nee. Struggling up the nar-
ream and through the choking
f vegetation, which threatened
e the passage altogether, our
irs' boat at last arrived at a
il circular basin, fiinged with
B and purple iris; the water,
eep, was clear as crystal, and
ng with fish. This was known
imes as the famous ^ dark-blue
' converted by heathen my-
into a nymph ; and an annual
was held here in honor of
Now it is utterly des^erted,
y an occasional traveller or
lan seeking food for his gun
ho multitude of snipes and
wl which resort to its banks
ke their nests in its undisturb-
reedy shores. That same even-
travellers returned to Catania,
1 with their expedition, and
gratitude for all the kindness
lad been showered upon them.
foik>wing morning found one
party very early at the con-
her old friends the Benedict-
lere the superior received her
3 usual fatherly kindness, and
id her, as a surprise, with the
f aflTiliation to their order,
le had obtained for her from
Casino; together with a pic-
the saint and the miraculous
)r cross of St. Benedict, with
srious letters, C.S.S.M.L.{Cmx,
it mihi lux), a medal always
y St Vincent de Paul to his
of Charity, as a defence in
ly perib of their daily lives,
lore the traveller heard that
music, which, beautiful at all
I so especially thrilling at the
ion service. The organ be-
h a low, sweet, wailing sound,
1 those beautiful and cultivat-
es respond: and then bursts
mder, ezpiessing, as fiur as
VOL. nr. 46

mortal instrument can, the glorious
majesty of Grod. It was the feast of
St. Monica — that saint so dear to
every widowed mothers heart; and
the fact, in connection with the Eng-
lish stranger, had not been fbrgottcn
by the kind abbate, who came up
and whispered to her as she knelt be-
fore mass: "My child, the prayers
and communions of the conmiunity
this day will be offered up for you,
tliat you may follow in the steps of
St. Monica, and finally reap her re-
ward."

Returning at seven to the hotel, the
whole party started once more for
Nicolosi, on their way to undertake
the more formidable ascent of. 2Btna.
Arriving, after a four hours' drive, at
the house of their old friend Professor
Grcmmellaro, they found he had kind-
ly made every arrangement for their
start ; and after about an hour's de-
lay in settling the pack-saddles, pack-
ing up provisions for the night, and
arranging everything with the guides,
they mounted their mules and began
the ascenu For some miles they pass-
ed through a tract of lava, sprinkled
here and there with broom and heath-
er, till they reached a cattle-shed, call-
ed Casa di Rinazzi, where they came
to a picturesque wood of dwarf oak
looking like the outskirts of an Eng-
lish park. From thence to Casa del
Bosco the road is both easy and pleas-
ant, and our travellers began to think
that the difficulties of the ascent (to-
people who had crossed, as they had
done, the Lebanon in deep snow) would
be comparatively trifling. They soon,
however, discovered their mistake. At
the Casa del Bosco they stopped to rest
their mules and make some tea, while
tlie guides advised them to put on as
much additional clotliing as they could
for the coming cold. The peasants
were at work round them collecting
the snow in reservoirs close to the
cavern called the Grotta delle Capre
— that snow so invaluable to the
dwellers in the plain, and the solo
substitute for ice to the inhabitants
of Catania.

■' ^

706

S^fraeuse and JSUta.

But here the real toil of the ascent
begins. It is only nine miles from
hence to the summit; but those nine
miles are t»;rribly Bcvcre, not only
from thoir slcopnc3s, but from tlie
nature of tlie ground, composed of a
black loose ash, Interspersed with
sharply i)ointcd lava rocks, on which
you tread and stumble, and seem to
recede two steps for ever}' one you
take. As you ascend hi;rher the
snow conceals the inequalities of
tlie ground, but does not make them
the less fatiguing. The cold, too, in-
creases every instant, and our travel-
lers regretted that they had not follow-
ed their guides' advice and brought
both overstockings and gloves. After
toiling up in this manner for two hours,
they came to a pile of lava which marks
the distance halfway between the Casa
del Bosco and the C'asa Inglese. The
snow here increased in depth — the
rarefactijn of the air became painfully
intense; while the clovids of sulphur
from the eruption, which still contimuMl
on the opposite side of the mountain,
driven in tlieir faces by the wind, made
some of the party so sic>: that tiiey
could scari»ely proceed. The (jold, too,
became well-nigh intolerable. The
mule of one of the ladies sank in a
snowdrift, rollcul and fell some way
down tiie precipice, comj)rlling her to
contimie tlie journey on foot ; but her
feet and liands wen.» so numbed and
so nearly on the verge of being frost-
bitten, that it was with tiie utmost
difll'/ulty she could go on. At last
the Casa Inglose was reached. It
is a low slouci house, built on what
is called tlie Piano del Lago, a small
ledge of frozen wat<'r, lU.OOO ft^et
above tin* s^^a. In spile of the ord'?rs
of the professor, it was slill half full of
snow when they arrived ; and this had
to be cleireJ out, and made into what
the childnMi call "snow nieii,'* iK'tbre
the frozen tmvellrrs could enter and
endeavor to make a fire with the
wood they had brought with them.
The guides cautioned those who were
still on their mules to desi'cnd very
gently, as, in tlic semi-frozen state they

were in, the least jerk or i
occasion a broken limb. <
party was lifted off her hoi
and laid on some rugs bi
which for a long time Ft
efforts to light ; and then
had to be rubbed with snow
some kind of animation. ^
object was attained, the ovc
smoke — for there was no c
fireplace — made the n-mei
worse than the disease,
time they had been well-nis;!
by the detonations from the
which, at regular inter^'at
like artillery practice on
scale. Everything they ha<
with them was froziMi, iiicli
milk they had got at Nic
of which they wi-re obliged
the bottle be I ore ihey could
for their tea. After a time, th
portion of the travellers ]
to rest on some straw an
wooden shelves or layers i
inner room, ont^ at the to
otiier, atler the in:iiiner of ]
apples in a kitchen-ganleii
England. A Fn-neli gi»oli
two other profe<s«>rs had joi
party, and of course had
place to go to: but the a]
of the coinivuiy, roostiiii; in
on the shelvt?s, was cuinic;
extreme.

At three oVlork, howev
one n>se, and CJimin«'nci*d l
of the cone, so as to read
by sunrise. The distance
but intens(»ly ste^p ; ii is 1
up the side of a him-e ; an
tleulty is heishteiied by I
a-^hes in which you sink
step, and the hot fdnies nt si
va})or which pour out %y^ the
tiie cone. Only a {Nirtion of
ellers persevered to tln» top ;
iMjing reluctantly com{H*lled
ness and violent sickness i
their stCfM. On reaehuig tl
they at first saw nothing bu
yawning cliasm. full of siuo!
kept pouring out in tlieir fuc^i
eruption, which one of the j

Sjfraeu$9 and ^ina.

707

in perfection two months before,
some miles off, and had burst out
new crater on the Taorraina side
^ mountain. But with the dawn-
^ht the whole magnificent scene
'«vealed to them. It has been so
-siblj and accurately described
E-. Gladstone, that any attempt at
k description could be but a poor
t-ioD of his words. Sufficient,

is it to say that the view at
^ repaid all the sufferin|2^ of the
« ^tna, unlike other mountains,
alone, rising straiglit from the
-vith no rivals to dispute her
9 or intercept any portion of the
^8 view below. The whole of
^fl stretched out at your feet, the
:>elow looking like the raised

of a map for the blind. Not
s the panorama unequalled in
Q.cence, but there are atmos-
bl\ phenomena in it which be-
> JStna alone. As the sun rises
^€ Calabrian coast, a perfect and
5t image of the cone is reflected
m the sheet of a magic-lantern —
e horizon below, gradually sink-
>^er and lower as the sun be-
a brighter, and finally disappear-
^togetiier. As it was early in the
>n, the snow extended over the
k of the so-called desert region^
e the wood below seemed to en-
e the mountain as with a green
which added to the beautiful effect
le whole. Tired and exhausted,
yet delighted, our tnivellers de-
led the cone, and rejoined their
iBoioDS at the Casa Inglese, who
been compelled to content them-
B with seeing the sun rise from a
I hillock just below the house.
' determined on their way home
rcTge a little from the straight
, in order to visit the Val del
, that weird and ghost-like chasm
1 had struck them so much when
ig down upon it from the height
1 00D6. Floundering in the snow,
I was a good deal deeper on that
if the mountain, their mules con-

tinually sinking and struggling up
again, breaking their saddle-girths in
the effort, and consequently landing
their riders continually on the soft
snow, the party arrived at last on
the edge of this magnificent amphi-
tlieatre. It is of vast size, enclosed
by precipices 3,000 feet in height,
and filled with gigantic rocks, of
wonderfully strange and fantastic
shapes, standing out separately, like
beasts — hence its name. The pertfect
silence of the spot reminds one of
some Egyptian city of the dead.
Smoke, explosion, dripping ice, or
rushing torrents characterize the other
extinct craters in this wonderful moun-
tain; but in this one all is still and^
silent as the grave. It is stern as the
curse of Keliama, and as if the lava
had been cast up in these wonderful
shapes in some extraordinary convul-
sion of nature, and then had been
petrified as it rose. Our travellers
lingered long looking over the edge of
the precipice, vainly wishing to be able
to descend into the enchanted valley,
and at last reluctantly turned their
muels' heads in the direction of Nico-
losi. The descent was intensely fati-
guing, from the continual jerking and
slipping of their beasts ; and they ar-
rived more dead than alive at the
kind professor^s house, after being
more than eight hours in the saddle.
A few hours later found them once
more in the burning sunshine of Cata-
nia, where the thermometer in the
shade was 86'', while it had been 27^
on the mountain, a difference in one
day of 59^ degrees of temperature.
But no difficulties should discourage
the traveller from attempting the as-
cent of iBtna, which is worth coming
the whole way from England for itself
alone. A few days later saw our
party on the deck of the Vatican
steamer, en route for Naples, carrying
away with them recollections of ei\joy-
ment and kindness such as will ever as-
sociate piety in their minds with pleas-
ant thoughts and grateful memories.

708

7f^ Fint Siege t

From The Dublin Unlren

THE FIRST SIEGE (

JAMRS S FAIiEWELL.

The fight at the Boyne was over ;
the English, Dutch, Danish, and
French allies resting, or preparing
to I'est, as well as the ground near
the Pass of Duleek would allow,
and their defeated but not dispirited
foemen marching wearily in the sum-
mer night toward Dublin. James
accompanied by Sarsfield*8 horse was
already for in the van, and iu due
time he reached tlic castle. We
can scarcely fancy a more false or
uncomfortable position than that in
which James now stood, when, calling
together his council, the lord mayor,
and other notables, he addresseil them
for the last tim€\ An ill-disposed his-
torian might liave inv<?nted this speech
for him if no memory of the one really
delivered had survived. *• My dear
and loyal Irish subjects, I believe I
ought not to have risked tlie disastrous
battle of yesterday against the advice
of my judicious offiajrs. After the
fighting was determined on, I unhap-
pily did ttiuch to discourage the undis-
ciplined fellows who so well exhibited
their loyalty and bravery at the Boy no.
We are beaten, I am sorry to say, and
I am getting away as fast as I can to
place hundreds of miles between my-
self and the cannons and muskets
of my ctillous relative. Make as good
terms, my poor people, wiih William
as he will grant you. I can do no
more for you than leave you my bless-
ing, to which you are heartih' welcome.
Adien!"

There is an ill-natured tradition still
afloat tliat in his greeting to Lady Tyr-
connell he alluded to the agility of the
Irish in running away from the field,
and was in return complimented by
that lad^ for having outstripped such

ver
eve
ord
ing
dis|
thai
sen!
jest
prcl
intc
whc
stro
and
ti
it w<
vitir
pi-es
Jfam
was
mcu
leav
thoi
or 1
Oolc
or t
The
kinn
tunc
pros
whi(
ed
ruhi
befu
spec

paw
of (
mie£
of t
paSLS
sliin
all V
you,
prin
of t]
itictf
upoi
earn
thid
teot
to 0(
comi

1%§ lini Siege of JUmeriek.

I poor king was overcome daring
secb by the part his own daugh-
ere acting in the bitter drama
1 progress. However, that does
cuse the reference to the want
lacitj or courage which he was
i to discover among his Irish
•ters. For from the beginning
ppeared more interested in his
s than he did himself.

WILLIAM IN DL'BLIN.

the speech came to an end, and
ig departed, and conflicting and
g hopes and fears agitated the
B, as the Irish troops marched in
rams beating and colors flying,
^n quitted the city, and pnn

to Limerick, and so on till the
I of the Duke of Ormood and
Itch guards on Thursday.

king rode in from the camp at
ss on the next Sunday, attended

service in St. Patrick's cathe-
nd returned to the camp in time
ner. On the 7th of the month
ed a proclamation from which a
tracts are here presented :

ILLIUC, B.

thath pleased Almighty God to bless
i in this kingdom with a late victory,
we hold it reasonable to think
7, and to have compassion on those
e judge to liave been seduced. Where-
do hereby declare, we shall take into
il protection all poor labourers, oom-
ikliers, country fanners, plough-men,
iera whatK>eYer : as also all citizens,
len, towDs-men, and artificers, who
smained at home, or having fled from
'dlings, shall return by the first of
. . We do also promise to secure
their goods, their stocks of cattel,
heir chattels personal whatever, will-
requiring them to come in, . . and
rre the harvest of grass and com for
ily of the winter,'*

16 who held from Protestant
ds were to pay their rent as
bat tenants of Roman Catho-
tald hand their money to com-
lers appointed to receive it. The
EBEL8 is applied in the procla-
to all in arms for King James,
f that privy coundllors dating
.6 vojal oamp at FinglasSi 7th

July, 1690, were detennined to hold
the adherents of James sternly to thdir
constitutional position.

Devoted partisan as was our chap-
lain,* he was sometimes blessed with
kindly feelings toward his master's
foes. He thus continues afler copying
the proclamation :

**This tUdaration was published in the
camp two days afler, and had it been pune-
tually observed accoidibg to the intent of it,
we had had fewer enemies at this day by at
least 20,000. For though the king was pune-
tual in his observance of it, some officers and
soldiers were apt to neglect the king's honour,
and the honour of our country and religion,
when it stood in competition with thehr own
profit and advantage.'^

DOUGLAS'S SLOW JOURNEY TO ATHLONX.

On the 9th of July, William dividod
his forces, sending one portion under
General L. 6. Douglas to force the
pass at Athlone, himself conducting
the rest toward Limerick. Dougk^
did not tire his soldiers with rapid
marches. The first night they bivou-
acked at Chapel Iseardj which place
a citizc^n of Dublin will reach easily
on foot in an hour. The second night
they encamped at Mcmouih (May-
nooth ?), but here we must quote our
historian.

" Friday we encamped at Olencurry (Clon-
curry ?) about five miles further, and we had
not got this length till we begun to plunder,
though the general give strict orders to the
contrary. Saturday the 12th, we marched
to Clenard (Clonarti) bridge, and here we
suid all Sunday. The soldiers went abroad
and took several thhigs from the Irish, who
had staid upon the king^s declaration, and
frequent complaints came sJready to the
general ; but plundering went on still, es-
pecially among the norUiem men who are
very dexterous at that sport . . At MulUn-
gar several of the Irish came in for protec-
tions, though when they had them they wer«
of little force to secure their goods or them-
selves."

General Douglas and his soldiers
arrived before Athlone, which our
authority locates fifty miles north of
Dublin, though it happens to be near-

* Bev. Geoi|« Storj, chaplsin In King WUIImi*4
army.

710

2%« First Siege of IdmerieL

iy due west, oq the 17 th, having march-
ed out of Chapelizod on the 9th (six
and a quarter miles per day). Not
a wliit fatigued or daunted, they sum-
moned stout old Colonel Grace to sui^
render. Story says he fired a pistol
at the herald, to show the value he set
rji his request. AVe must pronounce
the old warrior a recreant, unless the
charge was mere powder, or the muz-
zle |K)intcd upward, which we opine
was the case. Colonel Grace ex-
pressed at the same time liis deter-
mination to eat his old hoots rather
than capitulate ; hence the application
of Boot-eater to stout defenders of fort-
resses. So bcsii-'gers and besieged
fired guns long and short, wide and
.small bores, at each other till the 2r)ih,
when General Douglas, hearing tliat
Sarstield was coming to the relief of
the place, raised the siege, and march-
•xl southward to meet the main army
near Limerick. Mr. Story says that
about three or four hundred men were
lost between Dublin and Limerick, of
which number thirty only were slain
l>efore Athlone, say three men and
three quarters of a man each day.
Very inclifierent gunniTS were ihiwii
behind the walls of Athlone if this
stiitement be Inio, Our ol>seiTant
author makes curious mistakes in to-
pographical matters at times. Li this
jwrtion of his narnitive he mentions
the Shannon as falling into the sea
beyon«l Knoc Patrick. Every child
exercised on the map of Ireland, is
able to lay finger on Cnoe-Patrick in
Mayo, seventy miles or so north of the
ShaiHion's mouth.

After laying tiie deaths of the three
'ir four hundn'd men missing to sick-
ness, hard marchings six and a quarter
miles per diem, hurprises by liap))are(^s,
and sundry other disadvant:iges, he
cracks a gentle joke by way of cheer-
ing up his reader's spirits. " We kill-
ed," says he, ** and took prisoners a
great many thousands, but more of
these Imd liad four feet than two.'
Having brought this division of the
army safe tlux)ugh the •* Golden Vale,"
let us see what the other portion under

the immediate attention of the kin(
were abouL

HOW WILLIAM ENFORCED DISCm.1211

On the 0th of the month, Williai
eneami>ed at Crumlin, and the ne]
night biitwccn the Ntu* and Rati
coole. It was well for the inhabitani
of the line of march thai iLc kin
commanded in person.

"Little liapned rcmarkaUe excrpt t
kiiig*8 ^reat care to kct-p the si>ul(ii(T» fro
Ij1uniieriii<;. and e\-'ery u'i<;ht it waii i^'i-en o
in (irdera tlmt on pain uf death no m^ sbuu
f^ l>oyond the line in the camp, or uke li
loutly to tlie Icust value from I'rutrstani i
I'apiiit. The llth the armyman-hfd to A'f
Kullrn Bridge, the kin^ this mnniing pi.\«ii
by tlio XiM saw a pnuMier n.>hl»in;: a !>■>
woman, wliich enraprod his niajcsiy 90 nw
that he bt'at him witli hia cane, and :;avf n
ders tliat he and several (/thrrs piiliv vf it
like dis'ibcdluncc should bo eiocutt-.! on tt»
Monday fuliowing. IVopIo were so wick-
us (to) put a bad con'ttnu'tion on ih'u acti^
of the king*8, tnit it iiad 80 |?i>o<I an vSn
upon tiiat part of tlie army, that lie cojnti
was socurod from any violeuce dtmc hj is
wmidiors dtirin;; that whole ni.iroh. Two of li
suQci'crd wtTC JnixkiliiH dragoons."

Had General Dou«rlas acted thi
the worthy chapLiin would nut lav
had to record so much cniolty on
injustice inflicted upon the liarmlei
country people.

Story takes occai^ion. on Coloi*
Kppinf^ar 8 pix)ceedin« with a pari
ot' 1,000 horse and drauotMwf to \Ve!
ford, to inform his English rraJei
about the people in the srputh of tt
county.

** Hereabouts were the first K»/j!tsh plint
in In.famf. They were a colony oi »'i
countrymen, and rttain their old AWm.\ 1"!
and eiistoni.s to this day. I am crediMn
furmod thiit every day about one or i*
o'clock in summer, they go to l>ed. t!jc wlw
country round ; nay, tlie very hens fly op u

• N.-uis WM «ncliTitly the snl of tbe kin** of W
1.rinBter. The word iik'SIi^ a fair or a comiiMaantM

\K;it)it'«HTlo iiii|iUe:i m lunelv fi>rtre»i.
t In \M\ Marslial HtHue, fancy Id; or frlfil
«liagons tu be hi the habit of »puutin|; flrr out wf U'
mouth '•.f^ot the mu»l«r« of >hort niuvkeU ad-tnip*! •;
the efBf;i«f of tliew inon«t«r». and tbcrewiili an
wouie ti uuif« itf horM. The early dra^'via «ll<cU/t
the dutiea of inf^itry and ravalrj. Hw SeaU Gn
formed la IGS) wen tbr earUcK flritfA4rnnMi

Tk§ Firti Siege of lAmerUL

q) go to fold as orderly as it were

d Mr. Story was as fond of a
picturesque or romantic hear-
Herodotus hiinself. The well-
farmers really indulged in a
but as to the di^neracy of
ra among the hens and sheep
altogether incredulous. Some
cfore the Ninety- Eighty house-
nd village cauncib were held
month in a townland of tlie
to decide whether a farmer,
>m a legacy had been left in
, should rclinquiBh his right to
icounter the risks of the journey
city. At last it was decided
lyers were to be solemnly ofFer-
for his safety in all the neigh-
churchcs and chapels, and then
in God's name brave the perils
ivay.

H>d deal of irresolution prevail-
is time in William's proceedings.
rs came rife across the water,
one time he retraced his route
) far as Chapclizod with the in-
of crossing to England. There,
ir, he received tidings which re-
l him, and he returned to the
At Golden Bridge, which he
1 on the 2d of August. On
General Douglas arrived, and
9th the united forces approach-
Irish stronghold.

RIOR OF THE IRISH COUNCILS.

Irish and French chiefs who
Uectf-d to Limerick after the

the Boync were far from be-
he same opinions or aspirations,
ing to Colonel O'Kelly, Tyr-

desired nothing more than to
p Limerick and all the other
QS to King William, and Count
izun was more anxious to get

that centre of delights, the city
Sy than co-operate in the defence

raple of ^ the Imrony** are the descendants
kill colony who had settled In Wales at the
of llsnry L Beans were the favorite crop,
mo-stalks ftimlshed their chief faeL If tho
Vbm Inhabllants of the northern imrt of th«
old be credited, the barony of Forth for-
iMmA rriMH te ftU Iratand.

of their present hold, which, he said,
required only a smart discharge ef
roasted apples to be made Ibten to
terms.

THB PARLEY BEFORE THE FIOHT.

Limerick, now apparently demoted
to destruction, consisted of an island
within two arms of the Shannon, and
a smaller area outside called the Irish-
town, both portions being connected
by Ball's-bridge. King's Island was
and is connected with the Clare side
of the river by Thomondbridge, and
contains a legacy lefl by King John
in the shape of a castle. William's
people set to work forming batteries
and trenches as well as the balls
coming from the ramparts of Irish-
town would allow them, and the
moment they were ready they pro-*
ceeded to exchange iron and leodea
compliments with the folk behind the
para{)et5.

Hostilities, however, did not really
begin till some civih communications
hod taken place on both sides. A
herald-trumpeter, blowing his instru-
ment and displaying his white flag,
entered the city with a polite request
to the authorities to surrender the
place. Monsieur Boiselieu, chief in
command, calling the Duke of Ber-
wick and Major-General Sarsfield to
council^ indited a politely expressed
letter to Sir Robert Southwell, secre-
tary of state, in which was implied
some wonder at the request, and a
determination on his part, and that
of his officers and soldiers, to gaia
the good opinion of the Prince of
Orange by defending the city against
hb forces while defence was feasible.
On the return of tho trumpeter firing
began, the king inspecting the hot
business from Cromweirs forL

Story says that a Frenchman, es-
caping into the city the day the
enemy sat down before it, gave ao«
curate information to Sarsfield of the
complete economy of the English
camp, and of a battering-tralny tin
boats, wi^ns of biscuitSi etc, ap-
proaduDg William's camp from Dob*

712

7%0 First Siege of Limertdt.

lin. Part of the sequel is given in
his own words :

"Monday the 11th in the morning, came
one Jfanus CPBricn a substantial country
fl^nUeraau to the camp, and gave notice that
Sarafield in the night had passed the river
with a body of horsCi and designed some-
tiling extraordinary. . . . Tlie messen-
ger that brought the news was not much taken
notice of at tirst, most people looking on it
as a dream. A great officer however called
him aside, and after some indilTcrent ques-
tions, aakt him about a prey of cattel in such
a place, which the gentleman complained of
afterwards, saying he was sorry to see general
officers mind cattel more than the king^s hon-
our. But after he met with some acquaint-
ance ho was brought to the king, who, to pre-
vent the worst, gave orders that a party of Hvc
hundred horse should be made ready, and
march to meet the guns. . . . Where
the fault lay, I am no competent judge, but
it certainly was one or two of the clock in
the morning before the party marched, which
they then did very softly till about an hour
afUir they saw "

What shall be told further on.

SAUSFIKLD'S (4UR.\T fe.vt.

^From Umerick that day bould Ba»ri«ia d&yheil

away,
Until ho come to Cnllcn xrlicre thnlr artillery lay ;
The Lord cleared up the firmamciit, the inuuu ami

Atant shone brlijlit,.
And for the Rnttle of the noyne he had revenue

that night."

Poor John Banim inserted these
stirring lines in his romuncc of the
Boyne Water as belongiiij* to an
old ballad ; we suspect them to have
been his own composition. Whoever
might have given Sarefield informa-
tion — a rapparee was as likely as the
Frenchman mentionetl bj I he chap-
lain — ^he crossed Tliomoiid-briilge at
the head of fivo hundred Jioi'se on
Sunday night as soon as it was suffi-
ciently dark, and the party moved up
as noiselessly as they could along the
western bank of the Shannon to
Killaloe, or Killahw as llev. Mr.
Story spells it. There they cross-
ed the river and penetrated among
the Tipperary mountains, over which
the Kwper and the " Mother of Moun-
tains " towered in pride. Among the
hills they spent the rest of the night
and the whole of the next day, being
kept aware of the movements of the

convoy which meantime was woi^
its slow way along the Cashel i
Toward evening Sarsfield and a
who were most in his confidence. 1
among the dry grass and fern oi
hill-pass since called Lacken-'na* Gi
(Lagan -na* Capal^ " Hollow of
Horses"), were inspecting the
stage of the convoy. At that
the train had passed the villagi
Cullen, and were about taking
rest on and about the road leadin;
to the grassy platform on which i
the old fbrtalice of Ballyneedy.
was about five miles from the m
tain pass where the Jacobite gci
was on the watch. He waitw
patiently as he could till the i^un
sunk some time behind the Gall
mountains, and the watch-firvs b
to glimmer from the encampment.

The watch-word that night un
the wearied men and tlieir semi
was Sarsfikld, an ill-omened c
eidenee. How th«j piirty conftpi
their destruction found it out u
so very apparent ; but wlien the
ccrs Were asleep in the waste ra
and the soldiers by tht^ir was
Siirs field's men sung out the )■
word to the sentinel placed in ailv;
of the village, to tlie sentinel!* in
village, and to the sentinels imm
ately in advance of the unciwisr
gnmps. There the commander tl
dered out *' SarsficM is the wftrd.
Sarstield is the man.' Di*:;t'o;
shouts came from the rushing hi
men, and of the awaken«'d s^IuIDh^'
some were slain gallantly re^i?!
a few esoapril, and a few others
quarter. The sp^)ils c^Misistcil
eight piei'es of heavy iKilteriii,!-
noil, five mortars with th*»ir carria
a hiiiidretl and fifty-three wag*"!
amnmnition, twelve carts ]oadi*d '
biscuit, eighteen tin boats for the
sage of rivers, and all the carl
cavalry horses.

The commander, wisely judging
troops were at the moment marcl
from Limerick to interrupt his pi
had the cannons charged to the in<
and set in the earth, rausskdc

7%6 First Sitffe of LImeriek

718

These he sunxmnded with the
and their con ten ts, and skil-
id trains of powder were not
d. The successful party then
wmg to a safe distance — ^thej
X wide berth, taking the quan-
powder into account — set fire
to the lines of powder, and at
the same moment all the con-

the great guns and the am-
i-carts were ignit*ed. There
intolerable blaze, a roar and
rberations, accompanied bj a
up in the air of pieces of
id blazing wood, and the com-
Feet was sublime and terrible
conception. The darkest ro-
)f the mountain glens were
ip as in the summer noon, and
k was felt for many miles in
ircction. Sir John Lanier,
) hastening when too late to
he convoy, saw the blaze and
e terrible explosion at several
itance, and comprehended the
disaster in a moment. Tlie
3n wai perceptible even in
s camp at a distance of about
miles, and it is probable that
tm\ who had ^' askt** Manus
about the prey of cattel, felt
. provincialism) very lewd of

Sir John Lanier directed
dron of five hundred horse to

intercept the Irish party, but
ot his fortune to meet with
nd Sarsfield recrossed the

without the loss of a man.
lev. Mr. Story relates that no
made prisoner at Ballyncedy
lieutenant of Colonel Earle's,
ig sick in a house hard by,
iped and brought to Sarsfield,

1 him very civilly."

the Irish chief is snatching a
axation afler his successful
3d all within the walls are
:h a momentary joy for the
nefit, let us introduce a slight
* the career of the brave Earl
, whose memory is still held
ind veneration *by the great
he Irish people, and of whom
spectfnl word ib ever pro-

nounced by the descendants of the
brave men against whom he often
waged battle.

BARSFIELD'S CABEER.

The first of the name known in
Ireland was Thomas Sarsfield, stand-
ard-bearer to King Henry II. In
the reign of Charles L, Patrick, the
then representative of the family,
married Anne, daughter of Ruaighre
(Roger) O'Moore, and their children
were William and the subject of our
sketch Patrick, who succe^ed to the
estate on the death of his brother.
" He had received his education in
one of the French military colleges,
and saw some early campaigns in the
armies of Louis XIV. His first com- •
mission was that of ensign in the
regiment of Monmouth in France,
after which he obtained a lieutenancy
in the Royal Guards of EngUind."
He commanded for James in one of
those skirmishes which took place
with William's Dutch troops on their
march from Torquay. At the com-
mencement of the Irish campaigns
his estates produced £2,000 annual
revenue, so that it did not inconven-
ience him much to raise a company
of horse. We shall not here touch
on his achievements during the war
in Ireland, as these have found, or
will naturally find their places in the
course of our narrative. On arriving
in Paris after the treaty of Limerick,
'* he was received with kindness and
distinction by the ex-king of England
and Louis XIV.**

*' Tho former appointed blm colonel or his
body guards, and his most Christian miyestjr
bestowed on him the rank of lieutenant-
general in the French armies. Ue might
liaTo obtained a marshal^s staff had his fife
been spared. Ue fought under Laxemboarg
at Steenkirk in 1692, .... and on
the 29th of Julj, 1698, a litde more than one
year and a half after his rolontarj banish-
ment from his own conntry, ho was killed in
the command of a dirislon at the great battle
of Lauden. It was a soldier's death on a
glorious and memorable field.

** There are few names more worthy to bo
Inseribad in the roU of hoaoar thiia thai of

714

The First Siege of IdmerieL

Patrick Sarafield, who may be quoted aa a
type of loyalty and patiiutic devotion. In
the annaU of Irish ht<itory he stands as a
parallel to Pierre du Terrail, Chevalier de
Bayard in those of France, and may be
equally accounted *Sftn3 peur ct sans rc-
prochc/ the fearless and irreproiichablc
knight; in his public actions firm and con-
sistent ; in* his private character amiable and
unblemished. . . . (At the end of tho
war) William III. would gla<lly have won his
•crvices, and offered to confirm him in his
rank and property; but he listened to no
overtures, and left his native country attend-
ed by tliousands of that gallant body, who,
under the title of the Irish Brigade, filled tho
continent of Europe with their renown."*

In his Military Memoirs of the Irish
Nation, Mathew O'Connor speaks thus
of his military qualifications:

** As a partisan and for a desultory warfare,
he possessed admirable quail Heations; brave,
patient, vigilant, rapid, indefatigable, ardent,
adventuroii:*, and enterprisinj; ; the foremost
in encounter, the lust in retreat. He harass-
ed his enemy by sudden, unexpected, <ind
generally irronistiblo attacks, iiispirinp; his
troops with tiio same ardour and contempt
of danger with which his own soul was ani-
mated. . . . No general was ever moro
beloved by his troops."

A SIEGE INCIDKNT OR TWO.

Whatever William might have felt
on being made acquainltMl with the
loss of his cannon and uinmunitiuu,

♦ " Pati i.:k Sarsflcl.l, Rirl of I.ucan, a Bloerapliy ;"
DuMiii l^^lvor^ity MairiKim- f«r Niivuru'ier, l'^■*»:i■, the
wi-lt«T, Jolm >Viliiam (.'ili*, tisq., foriavrly cai't.ilu i:i
t!je Ut'Viil rii*ilier.<. Mary, t\tAvr nf tliv» eirl, w.n
married to Cifl'TU'l R>?*Uer, County Wt'vfur.l, ami lo
n Iliival dos'.vn.l.iiit of tln'ir:*, theirt^ntli'm.in jn-t mi ri-
tloned, we are iri(li:l>ti'd for tho only life of Sirdhi.-I«l
yrt given t) the world. He coiiM find Init soiint
uiatffi.il:*. tlioiish U \i ifuvpii«fd thi-y \n\^\\\ Ix* made
avnllablo if tla* livinj; rf-prffientntive cf an oM family
of the Pal..' wui'jM takr tlie truuhle of a n-an'li ariion-.r
tho arcliivi."j of hi-* h<uitc. Mary Sar«Aolir« ffrtvit
grimldant; liter w.is thcwlfr of l.loiitcnaiit (aft ;n*.ird
coIdihI) J.imt-i I'lu'kbiirn, who wa«i on the inrrcMial
ftafTof <ionLTal AVolfi.' on the mnnor.ihh' day at yii«'-
bfc. Iii<t portrait jto the rijrht of (ivnt ntl Monr*ini'.-*»
wn« intnKlui'-.d by Wf!<t Into hl« picture of llie
'• l)i-ath iif U'.>lfo." He aftvrward oTinuanileil llio
Tlihiy-lifth l:i V.n* Anivrloan war of I nd>>iK<ndi'n :■•.•.
Cidnnel Co«"kl"Mnr« dantrhter. M-ir^-arrt. iiiarrli'd
Thninafi C<»!c. Kjq., of Callan, in tin' county of Kil-
kenny, mnj-tr in the Kin-^'s* F«>ncible:«. Our uuthorily
the i'iU'.' of thi.1 marriage c-mld m-l re-^lst tlie martial
linpnUe.4 I'f liU race ; *o he iiinellM powder nlonj;
with Kcv. K. Ulei^ at Washinfrtun and New UrleAnit
and elH'where. ^iince be Ulil aside the 'Spurlle
blade and ihv!<V:In wallet," he has u«efully oiiipb)y«d
hN leUnro hours in literary conipusltinn of a hi-aitli-
ftil charai^ter. We suspect the iMiper^ in the I'nlver-
Blty Mau'azine on ancient iniliUiry tuctict illustrated
by plans of battlfs t'» be hi*. Anion;; hin other prw
ductlonfl arc biographies of General Vallaiicey, !/•
MM Power, tjxi. other Irlih ibeatrkal edebrilles.

he said verj 111 tic on the
He was one of' tliose who^e f
pose is uot lo be set Oi^idc I
or check. With hid batie
augmented by two <rreat gu
mortar from WatertonL he
to ]M)un(l the walls day a
The tHMiche^ were relieve
night till the following uul
take occurred, all the fwirfi
which are not Tcry intclligil
vilisins :

'* Monday ISth Aujnist at
trcnehes wore rvlieve»l by Lie
IhtuffUa^ My Lord Syln^j, a
ynHVtu^ as in;yor-;r«;ncraI.'«, ;»nil
Stnart. We rnndo oiir apprnu.-h
the fort outsi le the wjill, an>] l.i.-
iJougl'iiCii and ]iri;radiH'r i>t'uir:'.i
were postjJ towanU the ri;:ht. I
when thi-y went on, ami iIj: y tii.
celve the enemy lo ho ^a ni;ir !:.«
really were. [What hri»uj;lit t'l*- \
side their W:i!l.s*J for ilu'n* w;
time Kcarec twenty yunl:* tii-tatu
thonk They wore ord-'n* 1 t-* U\' -
tlu-ir arms wiiiirh liu'v «lid, a:-.f ,^
botli of the oRioer-; an 1 suM ;•.•:«. !
The enemy prrecivr-l tiii-j, a in;
them, whirh jiroseutly put Www i
fusion, and sevi-ial «d thiMn ^mv,' :;
prcscnily rto-ivercJ tl.L-nisi'lvc- a*.
dill nul kin»w at whwi. Tin- li\
left todk our (»wn inon f,,r ti.' i"
in<r, :ind so firod iipiiM thiMii ;

the ])aiwx to bi- the Irl-^i^

t.M!

the coinpliiiK-nt. Thi.' /.-.jc'i Ji-r-J
anil ihi-y at orn.* anotlior. 'Y\i\*
lasted iiii;]! two htnir.^, i:i \\\\\-\i -i
were killfd ; nor «li'l tlic kitj^ m
eUe know what t, :t:;d tlu*
boat in, crying 'tjuartt-i' ;.id "i
thoy used to di». Ai'rer tli:- 1
ordered iht^ tron-.-lirs to In? r. !-■'
day, and our men nnnhid alwa
out in the very faie of their l-uki.

If truth lie^ in a wdl. it i- a
should make clioii»e of a m;i
where hor contoui-s and lii
are so a<linirahly coiifiH'^1.
another vt'i^ioii by John IV
novelist, from what, if any, j
we know noi :

*' While day after day liif tj
this one point eoniiuuc-l.the :;.ivii
a niiilni;;ht sortie upon ilit* h;»siL'»':'r
by »urpri?e, an»I thrown into ^u^'h
aa to be unable to disoom friend
they attacked each other, aud tuc

Us Fir9t Siege of LimmA.

715

»tted anperceired, so coniinued until

Ding light sliowcd them their mistake

shocking havoc that resulted from

chaplain did not much relish
assic and severe style of com-
1 which critics assigned to a
listorical work. Moreover he
rer as ready as Homer to in-
; a gossiping or traditional
:, and repose his pen from the

terrible details of the main
of events.

the 19th of the month King
n had another providential
He was riding slowly up to-
yromwelFs fort, when, as he was
g a gap, an oflficer stayed him
ome business. Within a second

after the pause of the horse's
cannon-ball swept through the
here he and his horse would
een but for the interruption,
this time the people within the
ffere in ill-condition, their diet
ing of beans, or very coarse
and the enemy's niortarathrow-
nbs and carcasses among them
:tlc interruption. These things
ed them much, as Mr. Story
)r they had not seen the like be-
The round or oval iron carcass-
ich flashed forth throuoh its
fierce and inextinguishable fire
ne eight or ten minutes was
as terrible as the bomb. Still
3ggedly held on, and made no
int; Sarsfield's energy and
I spirits kept up their courage,
aplain relates with a sort of re-
al feeling how his party and
* enjoyed the burning of a part
town one night by the bombs
1-hot balls, ** which made me rc-
xm our profession of soldiery
be overcharged with good na-

MERICK WAS ASSAILED AND DE-
FENDED.

he 27th of the month, a twelve
)reach being made in the wall
itown, and William looking on
lomwell's forty the grenadiers,

supported on either sido by Dutch,
Danes, and Brandenburghers, on hear-
ing a signal of three cannon-shots,
sprang out of their trenches, and cheer-
ing loudly, dashed forward to the
glacis.* They were hotly received
from the covered way, whose occu-
pants mounting the banquette, and
resting their muskets on the edge of
the glacis, poured a shower of balls
among them ; and the guns on the
ramparts, .great and smaU, volleying
fast and fiercely, made wide lanes
among the brave fellows. However,
the guns from Crom well's fort, enfilad-
ing the ramparts, soon silenced the
engines of death stationed there, and
the grenadiers, undaunted by the thin-
ning of their ranks, gained the glacis,
sprang into the covered way, and after
a terrible struggle forced the defend-
ers from that post, from their trenches
in the ditch, and. over the breach into
the city.

The guns on the ramparts to the
right of the breach being silenced, the
firing from the Danes and Dutch on
the fianks of the storming party did
considerable damage to those on the
ramparts and in the ditch, but the guns
of a fort constructed in King's Island
opened on the foreigners, killed many,
and afforded some relief to the defend-
ers. While these were mowing each
other down at a distance, the grena-
diers, driving their opponents acrom
the breach, cheered lustily, and flung
in their hand-grenades, whose bursting
and destructive iron shower were ill
calculated to recall the self-possession
of the fugitives. But the pikes and
bayonets of their fellows in shelter,
now levelled full at their breasts, were

* For ilie behoof of yonng readers not eonrenant
with the outworks of besieged towns, a few ezplana*
torj words are given. Outalde the strong walls Is a
wide and deep, drj ditch. The sloping slda from
which the wall rises is the scarp, the opposite slope
Is the coanterscarp, its upper line meeting with the

Elatform called the covered way. This eorered waj
I about thirty feet wide. Its outward boundary being
the face of the glacis or sloping plane, this last so sit-
uated tliat men marching along It to attack the fort-
ress are In the direct range of the guns. The level
of the glacis is higher than that of the covered way by
seven or eight feet. The defenders standing on a
small terrace called the banquette at the base of the
glacis, and resting their muskets en Its edge, can fire
OB the adTUciiif fioe.

The Fim Sieg€ of Limertei.

717

that the gallant defence of Lkn-
might have made upon their
I. He would 80 twist and remould
nstances as to show that there
lot a shadow of hope for ultimate
88. James appears to have long
tained the notion of recovering
uid bj losing Ireland, hence
idnring patronage of Tvrconnell.
ick was influenced, of course, by
he knew were the cherished wish-
his father and his father's favor-
nd bj his inaction, and want of
sdoo-operation with Sarsfield and
lAbers, who, like him, were in
iSt, did all that in him lay to make
nil Ginckell's task easy. On
than one occasion the Irish party
about deposing the young duke,
le managed by a show of com-*
se to still retain his power.
September of this year the bravo
\r but faithless adiierent. Lord
chill, afterward Duke of JVIarl-
[gh, took Cork, which the Duke
erwick had previously advised
rave M*£lligot to bum, and then
to Kj^rryy as its defence seemed
ess. He rather chose to hold
; for five days. The Duke of
on, a natural son of Charles
od who bequeathed his name to
ond street of Dublin, command-
be navy, perished at the siege,
ig against his uncle's supporters.
>orough next marched against
lie, which he entered without op-
on, but the new fort commanded
ir Edmund Scott held out for
7 days.

LAPPABEES: UNCOMFORTABLE WIN-
TEB QUARTERS, 1600.

086 patriotic and troublesome
emned irregulars, the rapparees,
lued during the decline and fall
) year 1690 to do the English
dnster and Munstcr much mis-

by unexpectedly visiting places
led with provisions, either cat-
r com, and carrying off all they

sdxe. So Greneral Gmckell
g lumself straitened, conceived
km of e&ctiDg a aettlemeni in

Kerry,, from which Limerick obtain-
ed much provender. With this ob-
ject he directed Lieutenant-General
Douglas to march on Sligo, and take
it if possible, at all events to move
down the west bank of the Shannon,
and co-operate with Colonel Richard
Brewer, then at Mullingar, in at
tempts to pass the river at James-
town and Lanesboro' above, and
Banagher below Athlone. While
the attention of King James's gen-
erals would be drawn to these pro-
ceedings in the north and east,
Major- Greneral Tettau would quietly
proceed from Cork into Kerry, and
take possession of that ancient
'^ kingdom,'' seconded in his expedi-
tion if necessary by forces from Ck>n-
mel under the brave Ginckell himself.
The advance was really made, and
skirmishes and attacks of forts ensued,
and afler all, the English forces were
withdrawn, leaving matters pretty
much as before, except the damage
mutually inflicted. Some desultorv
encounters took place on the east bank
of the Shannon between portions of the
hostile forces, and the iiiEtpparees im-
proved every opportunity of despoiling
the English foe, and collecting muni-
tions into their boggy or hilly retreats.
There are sufficient materials for a
dozen romances in the adventures of
Maccabe, Grace, O'lliggins, (yCalla-
ghan, O'Kavanagh, the White Ser-
gcaut, Galloping Hogan. The last-
named worthy indeed flgures in the
two standard romances of the Jacobite
wars which we are happy to possess.
It may be supposed that the deeds of
these heroes smelt unsavorily in the
nostrils of our chaplain, who thus des-
canted both in sorrow and anger on
their proceedings. He prefaced his
remarics with an exprtission of Lord
Baltimore to King James L, namelyi
that *' the Irish were a wicked people,
and had been as wickedly dealt withal,"
and conscientiously adds, ^ I make no
application of the expression to our-
selves, the most people that have been
in that country know how to do iL"
Ona expedition of some moment

718

Ntw PubHeaHang.

was inad« bj Colonel Foulkes into an
island in the Bog of Allen. This was
connected by two togbera or cause-
ways to two points on the dry land,
one of them being furnished with
twelve trenches. These the brave
colonel, who brought three iield-
pieces along with him, was obliged to
fill up one after the other. When he
arrived he found Colonel Piper, who
liad approached by the other cause-
way. The rapparee garrison had all
carefully retreated into the woods
when they became aware of their
danger, leaving, as Mr. Story says,
**only some Uttle things for the in\'ad-
era."

Of course no quarter was ever ex-
tended to the poor rapparees. How-
ever, the usual forbearance was ex-
hibited by the regular forces on
tK)th sides toward each other. Op-
posite Lanesboro*, on the other side
of the Shannon, were posted three
regiments of Irish, with the duty of
watching the English on the esiHt
bank, during some days in Docera-
ber ; and (in Mr. Story's wnnls)
" then little hapned of moment only
some small firings, and soinfliincs
they made tnieos. Colonel (■/itfhrd
and the other Irish ofBwi-s drinking
healths over to our men, and tho.se on
the other side returning the com[»U-
ment."

It never entered the mind of
warlike chaplain to throw a bal
interest round one of his rapp
chiefs, though some were per
more worthy of the name of
than Redmond O'Hanlon or
Roy. They were contemporaric
his, and were directing their i
energies to bring his master's
in Ireland to an end. So it
against nature that he could ?
them anything but •* thieves, rol
tories, and bogg-t rotter?,"

The most distinguished of the 1
of these free companies was Am
O'Carroll, named Fadh fn>m his
height. After the first siege of L
ick he fixed his head -quarters at
nagh, and discomforted the EnglisI
their allies from that period (n th
ginning of the second siege. TL
he or any of his followent if taken
oners would be hung according i
laws of war, without mercy, he oh
ed a different demeanor to bis
fives. Those who had money
somed themselves ; others wone
as prisoners. Wlien lie faun<l Lmi
crowd«?<l by his foes aftiM* tiie ib
Anghrim, he sot fire to the \oviu
brought his garrison of oOO
safe to Limerick. Mr. Story
that he was able to collect 2,000
to his banner at any moment wliil
ruled at Ncnagh.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

SbRVONS PaEACnED AT THE ClUIiCII OP

St. 1*aul the AposTLt; \kw Vokk,
during the years I SG.'i and 1 StKi. J 2 mo,
pp. 440. New York: Lawrenco
Kchoe.

The new volume of SormonK by the
Paulist Fathers, which Mr. Kclioe has
just issiie4l in a very neat and tasteful
shape, derives a special interest from the
lact that it contains several of the liiiher-
to unpublished discourses of tlie Kev.
Francis A. Kaker. In the earnest, vig-
orous, aircotionate sennons on IVimncc,
on the minido of Pardon, on the power
of the Holy Ghost as exemplified in good

Christians, ami on the duty of Th
fulness, it is easy to recognize lii«
pulses of that bc:iutiful .soul which
now gone to its reward. We liave sp
before of the chara»'tonsiios uf Ki
Baker's preaching. Hero is an cii
taken at random fro:n the first el
four discourses which we have men
ed:

" Do you know, my brethren, whit st i
consoles the priest in his labois in the
fes8ional ? Why does he sliut hiinsvh'i«]
dark closet for hours ? Ah ! I will toU
Like Eliaa in the care of Horeb, be is i
ing for the manifestation of God ; ai
the prophet found the power of God, i

ITem PMieaiumi.

719

p«it or the earthqaako, but in the
11 voice, BO the priest finds the great-
c of God, the moat beautiful, that
insoles him for erery sacrifice ; not
orks of nature, not in sensible things,
great ; but in the still small Yoice of
nbling, self-accusing . soul, that has
»me to shake off the slavery of sin,
!aim once more, through the blood of
he glorious liberty of the children of
leautiful is the earth and sky, and
is the jewelled city of God ; but if I
what I think, I do not believe in all
iLvcrse there is a work so stupendous,
I, 80 beautiful, as the conYcrsion of a

I, then, does St. Augustine say, that
rt a sinner is a greater work than to
eaven and cartlu Well do the saints
Slory and empire for ever to Jesus
rho has loved us and washed us from
in hift own blood I Well do the an-
leaven rejoice over one sinner that
lanco It is a thing for heaven and
' wonflcr at. But, my brethren, it

speak well for us that we think so
it It shows that we have very im-
leas of the evil of sin, a very inado-
membrance of what Christ has done
ered for us, a very insufficient con-
)f the conversion that is required of
seems to me that some men imagine
1 pardons sin in much the same way
rood-natured parent overlooks the
foDces of a child who owns his fault.
I, in fact, God id a holy God, who
reins and hearts, who demands of us,
mdition of preserving his favor, that
him with all our mind and strength
t. When I see a man who has re-
!en to confession, and wbo has had
Bins to confess ; when I see him no
mghtful than before, no more watch-

himself, no more grateful to God ;
ee him forget all about it, and take
natter of course, I fear that he has
ay as he went; that no angel has
1 his penance, no saint rejoiced over
no droop of the precious Blood has
I his heart Surely if he had been
I be would think more of it Let it

with us, my brethren. Uave we
;iven a deadly sin, then from repro-

1 castaways we have become children
How sweet it is to receive any grace

I! To look on the sky and earth,
k that he has made it, to look on
I and think that we have come from
I, fills us with delight
to have sinned and to be pardoned,
aoned and to be washed in the pre-
>od, and then to belong to the family
To have tasted of the heavenly giffc,
powers of the world to come. To
love of God, and the peace of Gk>d,
« to renew these dark and stubborn

hearts. Where is our gratitude for favors
sach as these f Magdalene hath loved much
because she was much forgiven. When is
our love and our zeal proportionate to the
pardon which we have received from God f
Go, p irdcmed sinner — sin no more. Go, and
ponder deeply the graces you have received.
Go, and by your life show what great things
he has done for you. Once in darkness, but
now light in the Lord, walk as children
of light, living with St Paul in the faith
of the Son of God, who hath loved yon
and given himself for you."

The same fervent spirit and the same
vein of practical exhortation which wa
see so admirably combined in the passages
which we have cited, are conspicuous in
many other pages from the anonymous
hands which have contributed to the au*
thorship of this volume. The Paulist
Fathers have little to do in their book
with controversy, and not a groat deal
with dogma, except in so far as it has %
direct practical relation to the duties of
every-diay life. They seem, in tiiis col<
lection of sermons, to care more for ex-
horting than expounding; more for
arousing sinners to the comprehension
and performance of what the church re-
quires of them, than for scttmg forth the
church's sacred attributes. As discour-
ses addressed to ordinary congregations,
mado up of people of the common run
who are burdened with the common im-
perfections of average humanity, we
know of few specimens of pulpit litera-
ture which we rate higher. And they
have also the great and unfortunately ra-
ther rare merit of being very impressive
and effective when read in the retirement
of the closet

J. R G. H.

LvniA, A Tale of the Secoitd Century.
Translated from the German of Her-
mann Geigcr, of Munich. I2mo, pp.
275. Philadelphia : Eugene Cummis-
key. 1867.

We are inclined to believe that tho
now world-renowned tales of Fabiola
and Callista have prompted the com-
position of this beautiful story. Tho
heroine is a young Christian of Smyrna,
named Seraphica, who is cast into pris-
on and condemned to death for her
faith. A terrible earthquake, most
powerfully depicted by tho author,
sunders the walls of her prison, and
she is liberated; but learning that he*

780

New PuUteatiofU.

mother was carried off to Athens u
a ttUye, she follows h^ thither. The
captain of the vessel in which she em-
barks seizes her and makes a present
of her as a slave to a wealthy Athenian
lady named Metella, who names her
Lydia from the place of her birth. In
the service of this lady, who is a pious
heathen, the Christian slave passes sev-
eral years, exhibiting in her life many
traits of that heroic patience, humilit}-,
love of suflering, and divine charity which
were inspired by her holy faith, and
which is beautifully contrasted with the
pure, natural virtue of her heatlicn mis-
tress.

Her Christian patience is rewarded at
last by the conversion of Motella and
her son. Freed from slavery, she goes
to Rome to seek her mother, who slio
finds has in the mean time suffered mar-
tyrdom, and returns to Mctclla to be-
come her bosom friend and companion.

We could scarcely wish anything
added to the plot of this charming tale,
but the impression made upon us during
its perusal was that the different descrip-
tions, scenes, and tableaux were wanting
in a proper connecting link, being pre-
sented to us rather, as it would appear,
for their own sake, than as neci'ssarily
united with, or dependent upon, the life
and fortunes of the characters of the
story. The translator has fallen into a
common fault from a desire to be too
literal ; the intermingling of the histori-
cal present with the past AVo have not
observed it in any instance without feel-
ing that it detracted very much from
the force and beauty of the dcKcription.
The volume docs the enterprising pub-
lisher the highest credit, its typography
and binding lacking in nothing that we
couM desire for elegance and taste. AVe
predict and wish for it a wide circula-
tion.

IIisTORv or A Mouthful or Biiead. By
Joan Mace. Translatc<l from the French
by Mr. Alfred (Jatty. New- York :
American News Company, 121 Nas-
sau-street.

This is a very popular work on the
branch of physiology which relates to the
organs and processes of nutrition. It is
written in a pleasing, lively style, and
with the express purpase of being read-
able by intelligent children. Excepting
the absurd notion that the globules of
the blood are animalculac, and the grov-
elling definition of the body as a digestive

tube served by organs, we see
worthy of censure in the bool
otherwise, imparts valuable inl
respecting the merely physical
animal life.

GooDRfcn's Pictorial Hwto

Greece and tde UsrrED Stj

CniLD^s Pictorial IIistosv

United States. New editiou

delphia: Butler & Co. 1S07.

These new and improved cd

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an excellent epitome. The illi

arc remarkably good.

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press, and will soon publish, 1
bert's new work, which ha< ju
ed in London, entitled Thrr
of Christian Love — namely, I
Monica, Life of Victorine d'e G:
of Venerable Mere Devos.

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FMin KcLLT k PiKT, Ilaltinjore, Md. :n
vreil durini; the Second Plenary Con
more, Octolicr, \i*6A. And Paitorml
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TBDE

^THOLIO WOIILD

VOL, IV., NO- 24— MARCH,

ifftr or THE '/*

.A XKW-YOilK^^-

OUGISAL.

THE CATHOLIC CEREMONIAL.

. BY BEV. M. O'CONNOR, 8. J.

»E the Catholic Church there
al opinion that we Catholics
Jevotion to consist in the per-
of a certain roudne of cere-
id are entire strangers to what
Tital religion. These cere-
» which we are supposed to
tth excessive, or rather such
)ns value, are looked on by
side the church as an un-
and worse than useless dis-
18 an emptj pageant. Our
em is set down as one of the
ingredients in that bug-bear
y have conjured up, and des-
►y the name of " Popery."
be contrary, look upon our
I as one of the most beauti-
in the church, one of those
i clearly mark the finger of
operate most efficaciously
rk of true vital religion.
»nt, therefore, is a most im-
ne, aud well deserving our
oas consideration. To un-
it rightly, let us consider
iples on which ceremonial
ind its practical working,
leen admitted by all nations,
lip is due to- the deity ; that
dp needs an external and a

VOL. IV. 46

public expression. Not only the peo-
ple of Grod under the old and new, dis-
pensations have admitted this, but the
Turk and the Pagan of every shade have
admitted and acted on it. Many have
erred egregiously, and have had re-
course to disgusting and execrable
means to put it in practice; but the
feeling itself is universal, and, there-
fore, may be enumerated among the
first promptings of reason.

Its necessity is based on our rela-
tion to God, and on our own nature.
God, as in himself infinitely perfect, as
our creator, our ruler, and provider, is
entitled to our acknowledgment of his
perfections and of his dominion over
us, to thanks for benefits conferred,
to supplication for their continuance.
We owe him this duty not merely
as beings having souls, but as
that which we are — ^beings, having a
body and soul — as men. Tlie feel-
ings of the soul, especially if earnest,
cannot be pent up in it. They need
expression. ^ When strong and earnest
they fiow over into the body, they
express themselves in bodily action.
Man, as such, acts with the body and
the soul. Moreover, we owe Qod
worship not merely as individuals,

722

l^e Catholic CeremonidL

but as society. God made eocietj
and all that gives it charms. He is
the author of the bonds that hold it
together; he gave us tliosc faculties
that force us into it; the wants that
in it alone are satisfied; and the
powers that contribute to their satis-
faction. Society, as well as the indi-
vidual man, is one of those beautiful
and bountiful works that call forth
our admiration and demand our grat-
itutle. Society can recognize and
Ihank its author only by external
and common public worship. The
internal feeling needs something to
lean on, as it were, to give itself
strength and almost to give itself an
existence. The internal act, is, of
course, the soul of true worship, but,
like the soul itself of man, it needs
a IxKly in which it may become in-
carnate to fill the end of its being.
Without this it has neither life nor
power. It needs this to give itself in-
tensity.

The extenial act becomes as it were
a depoSitoiT in which the soul lays
what is profluced at one moment, while
it is adding more and more. As the
iron receives in deposit the powers of
each of the circles of the magnetic
wire that turn and turn again around
it, and is ready to discharge their
combined force at any moment, so the
extenial act catches as it were the fire
of the internal emotion, holds it until
that of another is added, and enables
the soul to seize again the power of
those that have vanished and resume
its work with redoubled vigor. Thus
going on from faith to faith, from wor-
ship to worship, fmm virtue to virtue,
all these rise higher and higher, strike
their roots deeper and deeper, until
the intenial feeling becomes intensified
and strong and as worthy of the great
object to which it is directed as it can
be in a mere creature.

The ceremonial is nothing else but
this external expression of inward
worship. It is an expression that
gives it consistency and strength. It
intensifif's and preserves it. It trans-
mits it from one to another, and to

succeeding generations. In
expresses itself. The indiv
has his own organs of e
The organ of the C'hriMia
the minister of the church,
him she acts as a liody ; she
herself as a unit. On this a
very properly reguhites min
he shall dischai^e this du
gives his actions a meani
value over and aljove, an
degree independent of, th«; '
jH>ssess, as expressions of I
dividual devotion.

Worship does not consisi
speaking, in receiving in!*tru
is, of course, a good thing
only a means to an eml.
the ladder to ascend, or the
used in the enaction of a bii
rec<»ive it with respect and
positions due \o the wonl <it
imply faith in him, and siil
him ; but, pro|>erly s|H'akin:
as it is mere instru-tionorii
it is not worship. Worship
mission to G«>1, a perlbrmn
duty we owe him. As far
tion shows us how, and iea>:
this in a proper manner, it 1
in itself — ix-^ a mere ox]>an«
mind, or the storing of it \
ledgi.*, it is not worship,
worship, wc must act, not
acted upon ; wc! must <lo. i
hear. For this, the cen'moi
most useful aid ; not. of v^tv^
as it is a mechanical movcu
if it stop there would be u
inasmuch as it i-^ the instniii
inmost soul. Light and
must precetle to give it si
but when life has thus b*.'t.'
into it, it becomes itsf-lf ar
practice of virtu<*, a disciia
highest virtues, which an?
have Go J himsLdf for tln.-ir
object.

This ceremonial consist
woiils that are used, autl
that are j>erfbmied. Won
snug, are a part of it, but oi
Many acts often expn*ss tL
more effectually. These

7%0 Catholic Oeremoniai.

723

»re or less natural; at other
37 may be said to be coq-
. Bat though arbitrary as
emselves, when they receive
lined meaning, they become
)f effectually and powerfully
g the internal feelings of the
1 and of society. Kneeling
ig erect, raising up or clasp-
Emds or striking the breast, an
;lance to heaven or a reverent
r the head, will express adora-
rence, sorrow, or supplication
nd ollen better than words.
»a walk in a procession with
and, accompanying the bless-
nent, or to honor some other
)f religion, you are professing
1 in it as effectually, and im-
that faith in your soul, per-
•e deeply than when you re-
creed, just as the citizen ex-
)rcibly his political principles
;ou8 acts. These, of course
liar cases, may be acts of hy-
' hollow pageant, just as words
L lie or an empty sound, but
) nothing from their intrinsic
teness. Nay, acts of this kind
;m to draw the soul into what
d to accompany them and be
I by them more powerfully
Is.

of the acts of this worship
hemselves, a power and effi-
rt from any impression they
[ace on the beholder. Such
B in all the sacraments. The
te, duly performed, may be
to the spark, which, however
I of itself, when falling on the
iterial, awakens a great power
ij that will rend mountains,

into shapeless masses, the
works of man. The sacred
been chosen by omnipotence
pent and instrument, and its
as only the limits which
ice has been pleased to as-

is the same thing in the
n of mass. The words of
ronounced by his minister,
great change. For he who

first took bread and said, " This is my
body," and by his infinite power made
true what he said, addressing his apos-
tles, added, " Do this'' — ^yes,even this,
great as it is — ^'* in commemoration of
me." And they " do " it, and by doing
it, "show forth his death until he
come." The effect follows by the
power of Grod, no matter who is
present, no matter who is instructed
or edified, even though no heart beat
more in unison than did the hearts of
the Jews, who stood by while the groat
offering was made on Calvary. But
other parts of the ceremonial, which,
though not of equal importance, occupy
more time, realize their end only when
they express our feelings of reverence,
or give tliem strength and light. Many
are directed to aid the priest alone, in
the proper performance of his high
duties. Many, while they have this
object also, are likewise directed to
instruct, and become expressions of the
devotion of the people. The ceremonial,
therefore, first of all makes provision
for the priest. It is important for him-
self and for the people that he be a
worthy minister of Christ ; that he dis-
charge the duty of offering up the holy
sacrifice with all the reverence, the hu-
mility, the fervor which so great an act
demands. The ceremonies become a
means of his doing this. In perform-
ing them properly he exercises all
these virtues. The church makes him
descend to the foot of the altar, and there
acknowledging himself a sinner before
God and the heavenly court, express
by words and acta his sorrow, demand
pardon before venturing to ascend the
altar on which is to be laid the holy of
holies. He then ascends with trem-
bling step, and having again silently
prayed for forgiveness, he intones the no-
ble hymn, " Gloria in Excelm DeoP
Whether the voices of the choir take
up its thrilling notes and make the
vault resound with a call to give glory
to God on high or he continue it in a
subdued tone, every word he utters,
every motion he is called on to make,
enables him to express more and more

r24

I%e Catholic Ceremonial

earnestly hiis deaire for God's honor,
]iU homage to Christ, ** alone holy,
alone Lord, alone most high."

Prepared by this introduction and
having admonished the people to turn
to God, he pours out in simple but
touching words his supplications for
our various wants. He then reads
choice extracts from the sacred volume
conveying the most hnportant teachings
of our holy religion. I will not stop to
da^oribe to you the ceremonies at the
offertory, nor speak of the sublime
••* Pi-eface " pro[)amtory to the most
sacixid part of the sacrifice. Having
prayed for all conditions of the church,
having appealed to the blessed in heav-
en with whom the church on earth is
in communion, he approaches the sol-
vmn act of consecration. Every word
he utters, every glaiico, every motion,
is directed to fill him with awe, with
reverence, to express a demand, an act
of iiomage, of gratitude or of invocation ;
and when the sacred words are pro-
noiiFicod, and he stands before the in-
<*;irnato God tnily present, though not
visible to corponil eyes, wiih profound
iiu'liiKition he expresses his adonition,
while; the victim is raised up, that all
pivsent may, like him, kneel down and
u'lore. And so all through the holy
>a(*rifice.

While these lessons are taught and
])ut in practice by the prie:*t, the jKiople,
1m 'fore whom they are pi*rfonned, leani
tVoni them to cherish similar disjwsi-
tions, and to unite their spirit in the
expression of his devotion. It is the
s:niie thing with all the ceremonies,
wiiich, like those alluded to, are ex-
prc-i^ive of the feelings we should en-
tertain for (^kI. Th(!y frequently ex-
press tlu^m more forcibly than words
conhl. Even ordinary feelings often
hrconie too strong for language and
:^rvk expivssion in some nctioif. The
fond mother would find words too tame
to express the love siie bears her cliild.
Shf^ huir? it to her bosom, and impress-
es warm kisses on its face. We meet
a h»ng-lost friend. Words would not
I'xpross all we feel. We clasp him in
our arms, and press him to our heart.

The model of repentance, the
when he meets his father,
part of the discourse he had
to pronounce, and folded in hi
anns, expresses his sorrow n
bly in silent tears and head
sobs, and is forgiven. Ev*
which cannot find an adequa
sion in the most impassioneil
seeks to manifest itself in th
clenched fist, if it cannot gs
ject by striking a blow. 1>
me, then, that all this acti<
church ceremonial is mummc
often a higher expression of
than words would affonL

If you wish to test this, '.
devout congregation of C'atho
ing before the altar. The c
had lifted up their hearts wlu
the " Glory to Goil in the hi
silent, or a few low notes :
that make the silent^ of the <
tion more sensible. Xo vt»ic
ly a breath, is heard, when tl
having raised his eyes to I
now inclined over the* sacretl >
Thousands arc kncelini; ai
awe. A slight stroke of the
nounces that the act is dm
priest prostnites himself in ?i
ration, and then elevate? th
crated host. Every head i*
the presence of a God. AVill
who ha? witnessetl that scciie,
tried to enter into the fevlini:
congregation, please tell me tl
or write out the speech, th;
have expresstMl so jwwertu
revenmce, their odonition, th
tude, and their love ? Yes, ee
are a noble expression of ou
feehngs. They are even n
they intensify them, embalm i
pn^serve them from evaftoraih
communicate them and spn
abroad, and transmit them f
eration to gene nit ion.

All this is a consequence o
nature, and this is so true i
made an objection to our sysl
is said that we build tiX) mu<
man nature. But if worship
for man it must accord with li

I%e Catholic OeremanioL

725

ndeedy with that which is cor-
it, but with his nature as it
om God. Now, this need, this
this efficacy of the expression
ag by outward ceremony, is no
■ the fall : it is in the very na-
man. Hence we have recourse
everything else. What is the
►f the hand when we meet a
>r the salute, or the banquet to
e invite him, but a ceremony to
friendship or esteem ? Look
»rocessions and various political
xations. What are they but
lies in which political or other
seek expression — ^an expres-
ich we know will strengthen
epen them, communicate them
3 by creating and giving force
may be called a contagious in-
' What are our national and
rs, oar national and party fes-
it expressions of a similar char-
oking forward to similar re-

^e thin^, as I said in the be-
the feelings of the soul seek
odiment, that will give them
icy and duration,
atter what the external mani-
be, even though it be merely
onal, when it expresses a feel-
lecomes an instrument for all
rposes. It becomes, as it were, a
;nt part of a structure, to which
stone is added as often as the
seated, until the building grows
lid beauty that defies the rav-
time. This is the case with
tical or social sentiments, be-
grows out of our very nature,
en should it not be the case, or
I it not evidently the case, with
80 which are connected with
\ These external rites not only
and intensify the interior feel-
; let philosophers explain it as
y, they become as it were a
ry in which they may be laid
recalled almost at pleasure,
n to be drawn out by others
h to acquire them,
at that piece of bunting hang-
a flag-staff and flying before

the breeze. What is it? A first
glance wiH tell you that it is a pioce
of stuff purchased for a trifle a few
days ago from the merchant, on whose
shelves it lay unnoticed and uncared
for, except as far as it was capable of
producing some day a few dollars for
Its owner. But now it has received a
new destiny. It bears the national sym-
bols, and it is the flag of the country.
And, oh I what a change has taken
place 1 It recalls the glories of the
past, the hopes of the future ; it is the
symbol of the majesty of the nation.
The patriot heart warms in beholding
it; the warrior-breast is bared to do
it honor. Through a hail of fire he
stands by it or bears it on, and will see
unmoved a thousand of his companions
strewed o'er the battle-field while tins
yet floats before the breeze. And,
when victory has crowned his efforts,
he salutes it as the genius that nerv-
ed his right arm during the contest.
Though torn almost to tatters, he be-
dews it with his tears of joy. It is his
pride in life. He looks forward to
descend in honor into the grave wrap-
ped in its folds.

Wherever that flag is raised, one
glance leads us to behold the genius of
our country standing up before us with
all her claims to our devotion and our
love. Let it receive btit the slightest
insult, and a thrill vibrates throughout
the land, every heart is wounded, every
hand is ready to be raised in its de-
fence. Yet it is, after all, but a piece
of bunting, worth so many cents per
yard. But by becoming a symbol, by
being the object of a rite, it has become
the depositary of the enthusiasm of the
nation. It is made capable of evoking
this, of quickening and communicating
it, whenever it is unfurled.

Look at our national airs : what are
they? The scientific musician will
find little in them that is soul-stirring ;
but the feelings of our fathers are
deposited in them. They were the
tunes in which we expressed our glad-
ness in days of triumph, by which we
were aroused on the national holiday,
in which we sung our joy on all im-

726

1%9 Catholic Ceremonial.

i i

portant occasions. Our love of home,
of kindred, of fatherland* has been
embalmed in them ; and when they fall
on our ears, all these dear and stir-
ring feelings, as if buried in their notes,
arc sent forth, now unlocked, and again
take possession of our souls. They
thus arouse the warrior and the patri-
ot, calling out all the feelings that clus-
ter around wliat is most dear.

The Swiss soldier in foreign lands
was so vividly recalled to the memo-
ries of home, by the airs to which he
listened in childhood, and the recollec-
tion of his native mountains, and the
associations revived by them, had such
power, that a special disease, called
"home-sickness" was frequently the
result. As this proved fatal to many,
the playing or singing of such tunes
was forbidden in Swiss regiments in
foreign ser\ice. And who does not
know the stirring efTect produced on
certain occasions, when Yankee Doo-
dle or Patrick's Day has been struck
up, no matter what musical professors
may say of their artistic merits.

In a similar manner our feelings of
devotion arc consigned to some homely
religious tune. They arc first ex-
prt»ssed in it. They cling around it.
They become identified with it. They
are recalled vividly when we hoar it
agiiin. Thoy'all come back in their
original freshness, with accuinulatoi
force. Tiiey are transmitted to
others, and thus we inherit the
treasure of the devotional feeling
of preceding generations.

Tiiough our l)eing supplied with
music by great artists, who ai*c con-
stantly dianging, if not iniproving their
compositions, deprives us in a great
measure of the advantages that might
arise from this source, we ciui feel it
at times, in what is allowed to retain
this traditional force. Who is tliere
that does not feel tiie devotion so often
experienced in assisting at tiie bene-
diction of tiie blessed sacrament, or on
otiier occasions renewed by the tones
of the Tan turn Ergo or other familiar
tunes, when the |»ertbrmer8 do not
destroy, or at least smother the old

airs by their cxquisitcnea
the songs of the church t
general use, the intona
Xliserere or the Stabat ^1
Pange Liugua and many
is like the opening up of i
through which feelings of d
as it were in a torrent and
sion of a whole congregat:
What is said of songs
plied to other rites. The
the past are deiH>sited in
exprtiss them, they arouse
communicate them. T
though they may be rho
rily. What more arbitral
speaking, than tlie mrani
to words ? The word •' h(
ample, for all that is hi
might as well luive boon
signify anytliiitg else of t
ferent character. Yet i
received a definite ineanii
uniformly a whoU; drtinii
ideas and tVelings. So i
rite— say that of anolntii
that of sprinkling with wji
incense, tlio, use of cane
making of the sign of
Many rites wrre esiabli>h«
for this purpose, othfrs ha<l
in necessity or convenient
but the clmri'Ii, anxiuus to
tliese things a source ot
and an instniment of de
them a moaning, altacLiil
lesson which they n»pnK]
after. Even those whieh
tain intrinsic fitness to j
they are established for, i
chief efficacy in this rt-sptn
having been chosen for t
or having gradually reci'i^
meaning, well understoo.l i
ian family. Those have ll:
advantage of si»eaking oui
a wliole instruction at a g
moment you look at one o
a lesson is presenti'd wiiich <
ly be conununicated in i
and jn perlbnning them th
more, and that more sinipl
effectually, than it could ii
course.

I%e Caiholic Ceremonial.

727

^e referred to the flag of the
; of its being raised, and how
it it, or a salute, powerfully
» at once the most import-
»tions and lively enthusiasm.
?e do the same through
iristian's glorious standard,
J the sacred symbol of the
Be it of wood or of the most

metal — ^be it the production
most unskilful or the most

workman — it is for us the

of man's redemption, and
it cluster our most tender
of veneration and love. It
d over our altars, over our
\ ; it hangs in our rooms ;
Catholic feelings can save it
ult, it is raised up in the bigh-
id is made to meet our eyes
r we turn. We impress its
our persons whenever we call
in prayer, whenever we find
s exposed to temptation or

In that one act the faith,
5, the love of the church for
md Christ crucified, are all
d. All these feelings are
i in it. All are called out
henever that sign is made,
e have heard of him from
it, what we have read in our
study, what has occurred to

minds in meditation, is all
before us with the accom-

sentiments and feelings as
that sacred symbol presents
ureyes. All are awakened, are
and seized again at its glance,
er, then, that the Catholic loves
. ; that he loves to prostrate
in adoration before it ; tliat

to it when he seeks consola-
mflering, support in afiOiiction,
liis difficulties, purity of spirit
^s. Do not tell me that it is
3 wood or of metal, that it is
7ork of the craftsman. Oh ! ^
like stopping the soldier in
> direct his attention to the
p yard of his flag, or to the
d address of the store where
ought, while he is advancing
itically under its inspiration

against his country's foes. Yes ; who
does not know that it is of wood or
metal ? but to me it is the symbol of
my Saviour's love. As such, I love
it ; as such all my most sacred feelings
clin^ around it : I impress kisses on it ;
I bathe it with my tears. And when,
on Good Friday, the priest after bring-
ing before us the whole scene of Cal-
vary, having led us, in the service, to
look on the death of Christ as the
great turning-point in the world's his-
tory, having shown us the woes of the
past that were there to find a remedy,
and the blessings for the future
that were thence to spring, forth,
holds up the crucifix before the pros-
trate multitude, and sings out, in a
solemn tone, '* Ecce lignum Crucis,"
" Behold the wood of the cross on
which did hang the salvation of the
world," will we not all send up our
whole souls in the deacon's answer,
crying out, with him, " Venite ador-
emus," " Come, let us adore" ? And
when the priest looses his shoes, and
on bare feet approaches the sacred
symbol of redemption, that he may
kneel down and kiss it with fondness,
on the anniversary of the day on
which the tragic scene was enacted ;
who is there that will not vie with him
in kneeling and pressing the sacred
symbol to his lips 1

The same thing can be applied in
different degrees to the various rites
throughout the year, when succeedmg
festivals bring before us the other great
mysteries of religion, or when we are
called on to express the ordinary feel-
ings of Christian devotion. He who has
studied the simple devotions of the ros-
ary, or the way of the cross, will be as-
tonished at the mine of devotion, of
enlightened piety contained in them,
and at the treasures that are drawn
from them by faithful souls, simple
and unpretending as they are, and
puerile as they appear to the self-suf-
ficient.

But these acts and exercises intend-
ed to express and nourish our Chris-
tian feelings, can only be appreciated
where thoite is faith. It is only into

728

The Oatholie CeremoniaL

» 1
i

hearts animated by faith that thoj can
enter. It is only in such they can be
aroused. A certain amount of instruc-
tion is even necessary to understand
the conventional meaning of many.
This instruction and training is re-
ceived by the Catholic almost with
his mother's milk. As he learns the
meaning of words, which is still more
arbitary, and acquires a practical skill
in the use of language, notwithstand-
ing its complicated laws, so he leams
the meaning of the ceremonial, and is
initiated into its use. With chisped
hands the child kneels before the
crucifix, and imprints kisses on it.
Little by little he leams the liistory
of him whose figure is nailed to that
cross, and knowleilge grows in him
with reverence and love, lie goes to
the chun'h, and is stnick with what
he beholds. He catches rcvert»nce
from those around, and infuses it into
his own imitation of their mode of
acting. As he learns more and more
of what is there done, this reverence
becomes more and more enlightened,
and he gmws up a devout and en-
lighten* m1 Christian, perfomiing tiie
acts expressive of worship with the
same ease and intelligt^nce with which
he uses the onlinary expressions of
social life. Tlie looker-on who is
without faith or instruction, who has
no sympathy, and wishes to have no
sympjitliy, with him, thinks his acts
a mummery, if he do not give them a
harsher name. Such a person may
be compared to one who has no ear
for music, to whom the enthusiasm of
those wlio are aroust»d by a beautiful
composition is incomprehensible ; or
to one wlio listens to an eliKiuent dis-
C(mrse in a tongue which he d«)es not,
and cares not to understand; or he is
like Michol, who laughs at David
dancing before tiie ark, because she
has no sympathy with his jubilant
gratitude. The Catholic ceremonial
is made for Catholics. If it enable
them to express and strengthen their
reverence*, it answers its puq)ose.
Those who have no such feelings to
be awakened cannot be surprised if it

strike them without pi
tion. The ceremonial
only as an expression (
eminently instructive ai
if I may use the ex pre:
ling and developing bi»th
and the dovotion it is i
press. While it teachej
in accordance with the ti
erly performed it is itsel
It thus instils truth into
shapes the heart in acco
which is the highest ai
education.

Some ai-e pleased to
mass of our people as
in matters of religion,
be meant to say, tiiat ;
perts in quoting texts of:
they know nothing of
versies that appear of
tance to our separated
they do not understand
of many ])hi-ases that
households wonls an
though, sometimes, I
round without any ver\'
ing, I am willing to ael
charge, liut if it he
that they are ignorant <
facts and truths of n-lig
necessary or in)i)«)rtaiil
know, 1 repudiate it in
Nay, I contend that th<
knowledge of these anu
most Catholics wiio eaii
nor write, if lliey have
in the jmihs where ili
them, than amongst man
nents who an^ considen-^
ologians ; and this they
this \Kiv\ ceremonial of
tn.»ating. They may 1
of (5 reek particles, or c
tilings jrood enough a
their place, but which
reqnireil any one to lea
know iliat the incarnate
the salvation of man. T
mystery of the Trinity,
plied in tliat of the incan
know the sinful cliarat
their need of such a Redi
are led to thank him, tc

T%e Catholie Ceremonial.

729

him. They know his sufferings,
y one ; they are familiar with his

and his nails ; they have ponder-
^r liis wounds and mangled flesh ;
>enetrate into the side pierced
3ir love. He who knows even
^oell is not ignorant. Yet all
nd much more, is familiar to

one accustomed to look with
n the crucifix. He sees in the
•F the crucified One patience^
xtion, compassion for sinners,
ven for his enemies. He sees
nsequerfccs of sin, and he be-
their remedy. Looking on this,
Ubolic finds support in his trials
Actions and moderation in his joy.

tne the volume he could ponder
^tid learn as much. All that he
^ at his mother*s knee and from
^t'eacher's lips is brought before
^ a single glance at his crucifix.
5 brought up again when he makes
^gn of the cross. Yet the cross,
i^Ught with instruction and moving
'^fe, is that which is presented to
^ thousand times in the rites of
church, inasmuch as it is the great
'ading prinRple that must animate
iis devotion and all his actions. It
ronght before him, not in a cold
, merely teaching him a lesson.
18 taught to know and to believe ;
I led to adore and to confide ; he
ought to invoke through it all the
B3 of which he stands in need,
this is done every time that he
58 the sign of the cross, pro-
cing the blessed words, *'In the
\ of the Father, and of the Son,
)f the Holy Ghost."
bile many of your learned ex-
ders of scripture are comparing
with text on these subjects, trying
emove, but scarcely removing
doubts which they know to ex-
.mong their hearers, which they
perhaps, rising up in their own
Its, or what is worse while th^y
)roposing theories in a Christiau
t which make nought the cross of
it and the mystery of redemption
er taught in the Christian family,
oor Catholic, on whom they look

with contempt, is making his starting
point what others are but trying to
prove, and while signing himself with
the cross, believing, adoring, pene-
trating into the depths of the love of
the incarnate God, and endeavoring
to shape his own soul into conformity
with its teachings. And you call him
ignorant. Indeed, a pure thoujrh
simple faith among the^e people
enables them to see the great truths
of religion with a clearness that sup-
plies frequently an apt reply to diffi-
culties that seem very embarrassing to
their opponents.

Yet, this is the first lesson that the
Catholic child learns at his mother's
knee. As he goes on, he learns more
and more of God's works of mercy
toward man, of his institutions for our
salvation and our sanctification, and
all he learns he sees reproduced in a
glance in the ceremonial of the church,
which speaks to him in accents more and
more eloquent, as his knowledge ex-
pands and his heart is brought more ful-
ly into conformity with Gkni's holy teach-
ings. In the liturgy and the various other
rites of the church, she has enshrmed
all the great dogmas of religion. There
she teaches them, there she keeps them
beyond the reach of the innovator.
The priest himself, the bishop, and the
pope, there see them inculcated, and
from thence, as from a rich treasury,
draw them out to present them to the
faithful. This teaching by rites in
use from the beginning of the church,
addresses itself to all with power, for
in it they find the teaching of the saints
and the sages of by-gone ages, and
feel themselves breathing the same at-
mosphere with them. The martyrs, who
bore testimony to their faith with their
blood, the a[)ostolic men, who by their
preaching, their labors, and their pray-
ers, brought nations to the knowledge
of Christ, the holy confessors and vir-
gins, who, in frail vessels, showed forth
his power in every age, practised these
same rites, and were therefore animated
by the same faith. The church, through-
out the whole world, uses them, and
therefore believes as we do. What

780

77ie Catholic Ceremonial

more powerful for bringing borne to
eacb one tbe f:iith of tbc universal,
everlasting church !

There i8 great security fortbe faith of
a Catholic in his receiving it through
the teaching of a pastor in communion
with the church of the whole world,
and sanctioned by its highest autiior-
ity ; but I would venture to say that
there is something even more solemn
in this voice of the ceremonial, which
is a voice of the living and the dead—
of the church of the Catacombs, and
of the church of tiiis day — througiiout
the world. With all the force which
this give«, leaning as the church does
ujwn Christ, who died to sanctify her
in truth, we are taught the great dog-
mas of the Trinity and the Incsima-
tion ; of the death and resurrection of
Jesus Christ ; the plan and means of
tiie redemption, the need in which we
stand of divine grace, and the means
of obtaining it. We are taught the
character of the great Ciiristiau obla-
tion, the nature and effects of the sacra-
ments, as well as the dispositions tiiey
require, and the duties tiiey imposts

Far be it from me to undervalue the
oml teaching of the ministry. That
found in the ceremonial presujiposes
it, and is based on it. Both ai*e. as
they should be, combined in the minis-
trations of the church ; but the cere-
monial fixes the oml teaching. It gives
the Christian system a body, as it wore,
in which it enables it to prolong its life
beyond the moments of the passing
voice. When once emlMxlicd in a rite,
tlie impressions of or;il instruction,
which otherwise so easily pass away,
live for ever. They are seized in tlicir
whole entirety at a glance ; tliey are
brought down to the comprehension of
the lowest; they are put forth wiiii a
majesty that the high(»st may admire.
Men arc taught there, and what is
most im]K)rtant they are led to act on
the teaciiing, and thus conform tiicir
hearts, as well as their minds, to the
holy dogmas of faith, which is tlie best
and most useful way of imparting
Christian instruction, liut 1 will be
told that this teaching, however useful

for those who undorstai
the great mass of the
language used is a de
few understand. But, ii
it is not lost, even liio
alone should understand
important thing tiiai tL
selves should have son
alive j>ovverfully amoi
one, universal and e,V(
Will not all the faithful
tlieir strength, and liglii
U tiiey are kept right, \
abroad by them will ea
ed pure among the ma?
pie. Almost all here?
to our shame— either h
in the sanctuary, or c
bucceedetl if tliey hatl
port there. And i> it ih
that he who would bet
cator. must first br.iiid
faitliful, must cease to i
as he did yestei\lay, an(
lie notice, as it wen*, ll
devour liic flcK-k whieli
taken to feed ; that in.^t
the d«*|K»sit whiei^ was
his olTice, as dispenser<
of Goil. he is substiiui
fanghrd theory of his t
off as an institution of
ther can establish a ni
by ceasing to .--ay mass
of Cra inner is not at e
formed for itself a new
Greeks and o\\wr urien
ing their ancient rite- n
have pre>erveil almost j
dogmas, ami to re-eiit
have little else to do I
the authority of iis si
But nparl from this,
itself speaks ti) all tl
langniige which all iiik
rites are Ihomsehe* a 1
learne<L ami sj>eaking
quenee to men of cwr
aje to some extent wl
have l>een so long loo
versal language. In
priest niises up the hos
and the Geniian, the
Armenian, see the pre;

1^ (htkclie OeremoniaL

781

^d to them, and they kneel down
>re. When the water is poured
head of the child that is bap-
Qen of every clime know that
enerating rite is being perform-
he rite once properly explained
ter expresses to them better
Qy combination of words, the
I change that is effected in the
Then, it must be remembered
i main thing in .the public ser-
what is done, not what is said.
moderately instructed Catholic
r aware of what there takes
md with this knowledge he can
not only deroutly but intelli-
though he may not understand
hear one word.

great source of mistake, in this
ion, with our separated brethren,
Tom the fact that they go to
merely to hear instruction, or
) words put into their mouths,
;h to address Almighty God.
Ltholic also often goes for in-
n, and this he receives in the
;e which he understands. But
} for what is even more im-
— he goes to take a part in
kt act that is performed in God's
mple. He knows the nature
Is of this, and the dispositions
1 of him, and as I said before,
perform his part though he
t even hear, much less under-
>ne word that is pronounced,
uppose a case of the surrender
^e army. The vanquished sol-
larch to the place appointed.
ly down their arms, they low-
flag. The victorious general,
3 warriors, stands by and re-
them. A speech perhaps is
But all who are present take
ligent part in the proceedings,
many may not hear one word
ittercd. So it is with the great
It mass. I will not have re-
to the common reply, that all
3 priest says at the altar is
ed and published; that any
> desires may read and know
elf; for though the fact be true,
the true solution of the diffi-

culty. I have no hesitation in saying
that in assisting at the most solemn
part of the celebration of the divine
mysteries, it is best not to attend to
the particular prayers recited by the
priest, whether one hear them or not
whether he be or be not capable of
understanding them. It is better to
assist with an enlightened faith in the
action that is performed, and then give
full play to such sentiments as this
faith will awaken in each individual
soul. This is evidently the view of
the church. For this reason, afler the
offertory, that is, when the most im-
portant portion begins, the priest is
made to recite almost all his part of
the Kturgy in a low tone, so that those
present cannot hear him even if they
be capable of understanding what he
says. Among the Greeks a curtain
is drawn across the sanctuary, so that
they cannot even see him, but merely
know by some signals, if I may so
call them, given from time to time,
in what part of the sacred act he is en-
gaged.

The church, by this, evidently tells
us, that by an assistance in faith, each
one yielding to the promptings of his
own devotion will deri\ e more profit
than by following the priest* s words.
Indeed, the parts of the priest and
people in this sacred act are so essen-
tially different,' that it is scarcely to be
expected that the same prayers should
be best for both. Wliile the church
has minutely arranged the rites and
prayers used by him who offers the
sacrifice, she is satisfied with awaken-
ing the faith and enlightening .the de-
votion of others who assist : and then
leaving it to their enlightened faith
what each shall say to Grod on such
occasions. She acts like the master
of the house, who prepares the ban-
quet, where each guest finds abun-
dance of everything agreeable to the
palate, and nourishing to the body.
With great care he has prescribed the
parts of those who are occupied in pre-
paring or serving it up, so that all pres-
ent may receive substantial proofs of
his interest ; but when thia J3 done, he

732

The CcBthoHc Ceremented

leaves the invited to partake of what satisfied wit

is prepared, as tlieir own tai»tcs will and sueli ot

prompt. It is thus that the Catholic ful soul will

system, which is accused of tyinj» men alacrity. K

down to a perfonnance of mere routine, and who is

is that which really gives more scope at a loss w

to individual liberty in public worship, he will wee

while jHiblic decorum and dignity are he will give

effectually secured by an established cr he will 1

ritual. With your extempore prayers, pardon fori

he who uttera them has indeed full «in he do

scope for his fci^ling and his fancy, effectually t

but he is liable also to their vagaries, who died fo

and his hearers are at his mercy. As for us ever)
hi» weeps or rejoices, all must weep or And mai

rejoice, or he becomes to them a hin- silent prayc

di-ance-. Their hearts move or try to gent and ti

move, not sus the spirit, but as the neither use

lead(?r willeth, and not unfrequently than others

may he lead them hito pat lis from most beautil
which their instincts will recoil. Thev, The dan<

wlio.sti whole time is engaged in follow- the steady

ing a j»rescribed liturgy, must ever go and nothin;

on -in the same groove. Whati^ver be n^alizeil by

the fe«'liiigs or the wants or the tern- is so fully

per of mind of each individual habitu- ence that tl

ally or at the moment, the same un- cd over an

changing roail is chalked out for all. remedy thai

What they hear may be beautiful, but ticc of wha

it may be far from lieing the best suit- individual

ed fur many at that moment. Hence writers tell

disirnst or c«>ld infliffifr^'ncc is sure to fond of thii

follow, of which beautiful forms may caix^ful to i

b(»oi;ly a pompous coverin^r. Amongst immediate j

Catlmlics onllie other hand, while the of his sacn;

chinch to srenre onler and truth and genenite inl

[»nl>li(! docorum, has caretnlly regulat- this private

ed every wor<l and act of the* priest, and pare and c

pnsf Ills in ihe cel«*bration of the divhie spirit and w

mysteries tlu* m«»st |>ovverful hicentive enly manna,

to liiitli and <l<*v()iion in all its bearings, without this

she li'avos nich on<^ els<* who is pres- duit pipe, c

ent to a-^sist as his own wants and fn'shing wai

dispo<lrions may prompt. none of the '

The inijrrnious zeal of pious men has powers,
proviilrd hel|»s for all in manuals of These re

varinn> kin<U, and each one will select sacred and i

what \\t' i'wuU best suited for himself, mass. If t

He will ii-<» it or interrupt its use, or even to heai

drop it alioLT'-lher a-? e\])<'ri<*iice will us to unders'

show him to 1h.» most useful in his own in believin«

ca>e. When it is m)t <lone through most advan

apathy nr listlcssness, he may fin<l it of no ccmsi'*

better to disptrnse with ihem all, being priest uses i

/r\

7%0 OaAolie Cbremamai.

733

»r he understands him, and that
igh. The rites he performs
I the instruction or admonition
useful at that moment, and this
ion does not disturb our indi-
devotion. On the contrary,
er turn it may take, it enlivens,
Is, and directs it
3 the first parts of the mass, to
these remarks are not so appli-
the " Grospels," which vary at
estival, are required to be read

on festivals in their own Ian-
and explained by each pastor
people. The ** Collects,*' are
to be all substantially supplica-
r grace, to which, therefore, we
artily answer. Amen, though we
understand each word. Little
mains but the "Kjrrie," the
I," and the " Credo," and these
B " Pater Noster," and a few
dngs sung by the priest, might
ly learned, so as to be under-
Y any diligent person. Indeed,
jay it is the wish of the church
should learn them. She would
[ that all would take a part in

them, as the people do in
ountries. The study of Latin
1 for this is not much; for all
lave referred to might be con-
in two or three pages, and is
ond the reach of any one, not
those who cannot read. Many
im it by heart, and unde^tand
bey hav« learned. Doing so
be but a light task in view
iiany advantages gained. All
hen join in the public chants
:hurch and be gainers in spirit-
» even if they £d not discourse

elegant music ; or, if our
compels the church to let our
16 discharged, as it were, by
9 in the choir, we would assist
n in the btoutiful sentiments
ire expressed, and not merely
jtive to receive the sweet im-
18 of their melodies,
though this would better accord
e spirit of the church, if these
Iso through our own apathy are
igible, the intrinsic character

of (he act for which we are preparing
will suggest pious sentiments that will
enable us to pass the time with sub-
stantial profit to our souls.

But, be it that there is some little
disadvantage in having the hiass in
a dead language, what I have said,
I think, abundantly proves at least
that it is not very great. Look, on the
other hand, at the immense advantages
gained by keeping it uniform and with-
out change, which implies keeping it
in the language in which it was first
established. By this, uniformity and
steadiness is secured in the faith.
The faith of every nation embalmed,
as I said before, in the liturgy, is be-
fore the eyes of the universal church ;
it is transmitted untarnished from gen-
eration to generation. This uniform
and steady liturgy becomes as an an-
chor to which every church is moored
As long as it clings to thb, it is safe.
And can any one who knows the value
of faith, of that faith for which legions
of martyrs shed their blood, deem the
little loss that is sustained, if any, by
our Latin liturgy, not well compensat-
ed by the stability of faith which it
secures. For this reason, though the
world in the apostolic dayg was even
more divided in language than it is
now, yet in those times, as we know
from all antiquity, the liturgy was
celebrated only in three languages^*
the three langua^s of the cross.
These are, the Hebrew, in its cog-
nate dialects, which are but branches
of the one Sem,itic tongue, as a hom-
age to the ancient dispensation ; the
Greek, which was the language of the
civilization of that age, and that adopt-
ed in the New Testament; and the
Latin, which was the language of the
people whose capital was to be the
seat of the government of the Church
of the New Dispensation. Li these
three languages was written the in-
scription over the bloody sacrifice on
Calvary; in these, and in no others
from the beginning, was the unbloody
one offered to Grod by the church.
No others having been adopted was
a clear proof that in the apostolic

734

The Oathoiie CerenumiaL

view it wa3 not deemed necessary
that all should understand the lan-
guage used iu the sacred mysteries;
and, when even these ceased to be
popular languages anywliere, what
had always been the condition of the
great number became the condition of
all.

In afl«r ages a few exceptions^ and
only a few, were permitted or rather
tolerated. The liturgy was allowed
to be celebrated in one other language
in Asia, tiie Armenian ; in two in
Africa, the Coptic and the Ethiopic ;
and in one in Europe, the Sla-
vonic. No others were used. But
these were exceptional cases — they
occurred at a later period, and under
peculiar circumstances, showing rather
the sufferance tlian the genuine spirit
of the church, while she cordially
ado])ted from the beginning, and ever
clung to the three languages of tlic
cross.

It is both beautiful and useful to
the Catholic to assist a^ the divine of-
fices in the Fame language, and in
the main, with the same rites, in wliich
they have been performed for eighteen
hundred years. They seem like the
voice of the martyrs, tlie confessoi*s,
the saints who have lived through
these eighteen centuries. They echo
their faiili and their devotion. We
feel that in tiiem we are breathing the
life of a church now and ever spread
througiiout tiie whole world, every-
where offering to God one sacrifice
of praise.

A dignitary of the Protestant Epis-
copal Church in this country has late-
ly written an angry letter against those
of his brethren who are called ** Rit-
ualists,'* because they are anxious to
IntHHluce into their church many
Catholic, or, as he calls them, <* lio-
mish" ceremonies. His ground of
complaint is that behind tiiese cere-
monies stand tlie doctrines of the
Catholic (Jliurch. ** Tlicir course," ho
says, '• means return to what the ref-
ormation cast out with indignation."
** It means l^>nlanism in all its strength
and subslaiice," and he enumerates

the various doctrines which it imp
which he considers abominations
do not wbh to pronounce an opi
on the extent to which bis rein
are justifiable in their applicatic
the parties against whom he wi
but he is certainly right in Mu
tliat behind the Catholic ritual si
Catholic doctrine, which is no
else but Chrii^tian doctrine ; and a
reformation *' cast out ** many o
rites in use in the Christian fi
from the beginning, with them it '
out" a great portion of the Chr
dogma. The good man's ehar^
only make those who present
dogma see more clearly ihe
of the rites in wliich it is en^hl
and cling more tenaciously to do
thus shown to be coeval with CI
anity.

Every rite has thus a Iisson
becomes an act of devotion,
cross above our churches an»l
ahars, continually reapitearin;; ii
our ceremonies, impresses on ui
incarnation, death, and atonemen
Christ crucified, as the great ec
point of all religion. To this wi
constantly brought back in everv |
er which concludes by a*kini
we demand, through Jesus Cliris
familiar closing of whirh, tli'!
omnia sacufa 9a!cuh>rHmr knu«
every child, calls forth from al
heartfelt Amen I To this, an
what should accompany it. the (
olic is constantly directed bj
ceremonial The church lH?li.
ed with the cross, and anoinn^i
oil, which is a synilK»l of Christ, si
in the tower, and a 4 his mosse
calls us in his name to his boi
now, ringing out with joy, when
great mystery is to bo ci.iram-n:
ed — now, in deep solonm notf
pray for one of his departed mvu
Three times every day it sum
us to the recital of the Anjrtli
which we commemorate th-'
mystery of the incarnation, an
voke the merits of the Sav
death, and ask the benefit o
resurrection. If we enter

Tke OaAolie Ceremonial,

785

tbe font at the door, from
we take a drop of blessed
to sprinkle our foreheads, is it-
lermon on the purity with which
lid approach, and bids us cleanse
Is before we come near to him
er. The burning lamp speaks
f him who is the light of the
now dwelling on the altar, as
of the constant fire of devo-
id pure adoration, due to the
Grod. The priest whom you
the altar, clad in those quaint
ttments, tells you at a glance
u are in the presence of a wor-
at has come down from the re-
ages. The burning lights on
ir, which have now become an
I of gladness, speak to you of
acombs, in which our Hathers
fiige, and preserved for us the
deposit, at the cost of property,
ty, and of life.

old heirlooms, with their-
old forms and ytheir several
tions, these vestments and rites
the same time of their real
ty and of the many vicissi-
hrough which they have pass-
!7iey are not like those imita-
f the antique in use amongst
f our friends got up by study-
lient drawings and descriptions,
all the ^inconvenience without
g of the venerable character
It is truly ancient. With us
e inherited through uninterrupt-
from the beginnmg. What-
anges have occurred in minor
only render them more vener-

able, for if on the one hand we are
brought back to ancient days, these
are marks of the many ages through
which they have passed. Everything
in the rites of the church is fraught
with instruction, with devotion. It
enables you to know, and what is
better, to practice — ^for while it teach-
es, it leads you to love and adore.
Do you wish to know the efficacy of
that ceremonial ? Look at those who
have been nursed under its training.
See the all-pervading influence of re-
ligion, that exists among them. Long
and powerful discourses may make
men skilful talkers and ardent par-
tisans. Those who have been reared
under a divinely inspired ritual have
religion deeply engraven on their
hearts. It takes possession and en-
ters into the whole nature of the man ;
and even when he gives way to the
allurements of' iniquity, it retains its
hold on him. This 'may indeed make
him appear, and be, an inconsistent
object of pity or of scorn. Butj hap--
py inconsistentsy I For if he will, not
be consistent ill good, far better that
he be inconsistent or not consistent
in evil He would otherwise become
a monster. The links by which he is
yet bound to what is good, may one
day draw him within the pale of that
mercy to which no sinner appealed in
vain, before which no sinner is too
great to be pardoned.

To the Catholic, in every position,
the ceremonial is light and nourish-
ment — a plentiful source of vigor and
life.

78G

Aladame de SwetcMne*

Wnim Le Oorrespondant.

MADAME DE SWETCHINE.

BY REV. FATHER LACORDAJRE.

I r

Many times already have I render-
ed to illustrious Catholics who have
died in our day, a funeral and a pious
homage. Tn turn, General Drouot,
Daniel O'Connell, and Frederic Oza-
nam have heard my voice above their
tomb, a voice far below that which
their glory merited, but which, never-
theless, holds from a sincere admira-
tion the right to praise them. To-day,
a(\er these familiar names for which
praise can do nothing, I pronounce an-
other name, a name which may appear
almost unknown, perhaps even that of
a fort^igner, which, however, belongs
to the nation of the great minds of our
a«»e. A superior writer, Madame de
Swetchine published nothing ; a con-
versationalist of the first order, the
fame of her salon never penetrated
beyond that circle wliich, though not
public, is more tlian privacy ; a wonum
of antique faith and of active piety,
she neither founded nor presided over
any orders ; and yet. for more than
forty years she swayed an empire, to
which the Count de ilaistre submitted,
befoi-e which jNIadame de Stael inclin-
ed, and which retained around her,
even to her last days, admirers aciMis-
tomed to act on public opinion, but
still more accustumrd to enlighten
their own by hers. To the Count de
Maistre succeeded ]M. de Bonald. The
Abbi'' Frayssinous*, M. Cuvier, to these
M. de Montalenibert, the Count de
Falloux, Prince Albert do Broglie,
and many othoi-s, a younger genera-
tion, but not less submissive to the
ascen<loncy of a soul where virtue
served genius.

Why should we be silent ? Why
not tell the living what they have lost
in the dead? While a man lives,

modesty should guard all hi
and friendship it<)elf should be
cd by it ; but death has this
able, that it restores to men
judgment all its lilteny. ]
away those from whom ii e
double rock of weakness an
])ermits those who have se
the veil, those who have re
acknowledire the benefit, t
have loved to pour forth il
tion. Even the obscurity
adds to the desire of n
known ; and if this merit
trious, being all hidden, it
a religious <luty to draw it 1
the tomb, and to n»nil».»r it U
the honor it has before («
hope I shall be yianloned
pages ; but did I not, yet I ¥
write them. I owe tlu*m tc
ship which bi»gan in the sh:i
perils of my youth, ami wh
through all the vieissitiK
quarter of a ci*ntury, nev<
to 0|x*n to me jH'rspeetives
60 difHoult to ri'co^nize in
fused and agitati»d times wl
itself is trouWed by eartlil
and seeks a route worthy <»i
sion.

Madame Sophie Jeanne
chine wn> horn in 1 Russia, n
December, 17S2. Ilt'r fani
was Soymonoff. She had
who married the Prince tie
a fonuer Russian ainluis
Uomc ; she herself was unii
ag<* of sev<MUoen to (lenenil
chine. Military Governor n
tersburg. She Indouged b_v
tlie Greek itligion, but her
IkkI abandoned her to (he :
of the eighteenth century, ai

Madame ds SwUekine.

IZl

natural course of things, she
re died an unbeliever or a
\ in the depth of some half-
state. God willed it other-
hence arises from the first
' interest attached to her

a Christian, a soul's pre-
1, and the mysterious ways
God conducts it to its end
ifringing its liberty, are a
that has above all others an
ible charm. The secrets of
free will, so intimate in our
:s, are less enlightened in a
lich is not our own ; and the
n of saints which makes us
ring and loving, one in a
ht and a single goodness,
n the account of a difficult
1, the feeling of a conquest
ve ourselves have shared,
lung Sophie de Soymonoff
i Greek and an unbeliever.
»een beguiled from her birth
isions of rationalism, and the
the most singular fortune
3r ever had ; foi' the Greek
as this trait solely its own,
sents a much restricted and
negation to the true faith,
authority cut loose from its

which, however, preserves
St with a profound respect
lity. In seeing this exact
succession, this unaltered
:his inviolable, discipline,
raments which Rome her-
lizes, we ask if an error, pe-
so long and so well the
ich it traced when it first
3 not seem like those rocks

irruption has thrown from
ndations and which re-
lovable under the eye and
1 of ages? Whilst in the
>testanti8m is unable to ere-
* dogmas or discipline or
. and floats as a wander-

from mind to mind, the
the contrary, sees produced

of error. Here dissolu-

3 petrifaction; and between

the truth which is immut-

out being inerf^ progressif e

VOL. IV. 47

without being subject to change.
However surprising may be this con-
trast, it is not difficult to account for
it, if we consider, on the one hand,
the difference of nature between the
eastern man and the western; and
on the other, the diversity of the
political destiny assigned them. The
eastern man contemplates and adores,
while his rival, less happy in con tern-
, plation, is more so in acting. Thus the
one has created generous institutions,
under which he has from age to age
extended his empire, while the other
has passed from servitude to servitude,
incapable of seating himself in the
shade of a regular authority, and
of developing in a free atmosphere
either the evil or the good which
he has conceived. Hence in Europe
error takes a character of life which
conducts it to its most extreme logical
consequences, at the same time that it
wears at Constantinople a character
of death, which leave's it what it was,
by impotence, not by virtue.

Nevertheless, it is easy for a vulgar
intelligence to be deceived, especially
where family and national traditions
give to error the reflex of patriotism,
and when an absolute government, the
jealous guardian of a religion of which
it is the head, suffers no emanations of
the truth to reach the souL Sopiiie de
Soymonoff was bom a prisoner in an
empire of seventy millions of souls.
She was six hundred leagues from St.
Peter's, andlEi thousand years from the
true faith. But, however vigilant des-
potism may be, however thick its dun-
geon walls, G<)d remains ever near,
and he draws therefrom, when he wills,
the instruments which his Providence
uses to preserve for man the share
which he assigns him in all his woii».
At an age when Madame de Swetchine
could not yet sound either the poverty
of the Greek schism or the abyss of
unbelief, a man of Grod came to her.
He was not a priest, but an ambassa-
dor of a king despoiled of the greater
part of his possessions^ shut up in an
island of the Mediterranean, and who,
in sending to St. Petersburg a repre-

738

Madame de Swetehine.

m ■

gentative of bis misfortunes, thought
not that he sent tliere a charge (Taf-
faires of dinnc grace, marked with the
seal of the elect. Count Joseph de
Maistre, for he it was, detested with all
his soul tiie two Colossuses of his day,
the French revolution and the French
empire, because in the one he saw the
oppression of European nationalities;
and the otlicr, because he thought he
saw it imprinted forever with an anti-
Christian spirit. But ho loved France,
because, tliough it was the seat of the
revolution and of the empire, he dis-
discerned there an indestructible faith,
the faith of Clovis, of Charlemagne,
and of St, Louis, and I know not what
predestination that ravished his judg-
ment, and rendered him the propliet of
that very country wliich he esteemed
so cnlnnblif and yet so great. Bom in
Savoy, in the country of Sl Francis
de Sales, and of Jean Jacques Rous-
seau, he was French like them in liis
genius, but even mow. so by his faith
and his ht^art, which had but two pulsa-
tions, one for the church, the otlier f<)r
France ; generous mortal who silenceil
iiis antipathies by his convictions, m
wliom blindness did not (extinguish tlie
light, and who, like Philoctotes, wound-
ed by the arrows of lioroules. could
be separated from Greece, neither in
his accusations nor in Iiis affrction.^.
Madame de Swetehine soon ni»»t \\\\<
exiraordiimry man hi llie saloons of St.
Petei-sburg, and it was the first great
event of Ikt life. A ])osilive spirit, but
amiable, as Iiis posthumous correspond-
ence proves, jM. de Maistre loved con-
versation, lie did not love it asa throne
from whi(!h his genius could display
its brilliancy, but as a free and delicate
interchange of thoughts, in which gnu*e
unites with intelligence, taste with bold-
ness, freedom with reserve, bringing
together in an hour all tunes and all
gifts, and forming a bond of union be-
tween men who are pleased with sen-
timents of kindness and esteem. Gen-
erous focus of cu1tivate<l minds of all
coimtri<»s, conversation is the last asy-
hnn of human lil>erty. It speaks when
tho tribune is silent; it supplies the

place of books when bo<
be had ; it gives currenc
which despuusm i>t.Tsec
it warms, and agi:aie5 ;
is, where it can live, the
the all-powerful echo of ]
It Ls not astonishing th
men find in it a plea^ur
them like the accomplish]
So lonir as society convt

It did not lor)k much ;
de Maistre could find at i
an aliment for this nobl
heart. The Russian is
facility of expression, a
apprehension, and it is i
r»)l)ed of justice which I
the Frenchman of the N
closed up as seem as Ii«m
world ; deprive<l of all j>
he hsis not even in hi*
for liis breast toexjiand,
he adores apjH?ars t.^ hi
the sceptre of his ma*ti
their in) placable niajest \
encloses at St. Petrrsbii
where sleep the Czars, a
their people cannot ev^
their ashes. Fear, sn-
ail the shades of iutpiii
the Russian, and are tni
brow by a calm which nn
on his lips by a n-serve
dissipates. To con v <.*]•-«.
ry to be open ; and to n
one must possess \\\< life
honor, his liberty. Whei
Count de Maistre enl'-r
burg, he might say that
capital of silence, and i
would l)e there only am

lie was dcct^iveil. I 1
de Swetciiine only du
twenty-five years of hv
was fifty when I first r
on her benevolent ci^uniei
less age had ri pencil hei
ing and speaking, but it
that she should not ha
thing of it in that young «
early announced to oihe
self, the treasure which
her bosom. Certain ii
Maistre had soon disc

Madame de Swetchine,

rsD

it of that society of great lords
3matists,he discovered a young
who bore in her language the
>f superiority, and whose con-
n, springing from a source still
lan the mind, touched with re-
e tact the frontiers of liberty,

ever passing beyond them,
ice is an irrepressible want

poor heart; it cannot live
It opens itself unconsciously,
m life's experience has reveal-
eril of abandoning it to itself,
ifes wiser but no fonder of re-
ad counts it a supreme happi-
neet with security in the inter-
f society. Less happy, how-
iB the greater part of men, the
genius has need also of a cer-
ration in the minds that come
ict with his own ; and, though
'd has its charm and its power,
9nly in hearing him who rules,
in tfie shock of two intelligen-
h worthy of the otlier, that
ition has its highest flight, and
the last fibres of our being,
als to it the eternal pleasure of
)eiiking with minds. Demos-
iiscoursing before the Athe-
icero pleading in the Forum or
ite of Bome, did not make, as
some may think, a monologue :
itude responded, and their elo-
^as the fruit of a great soul
r a great people. Tiiere is no
eloquence, and every orator
•uble genius, his own and that
^e that hears him.
me de Stael, who was the first
itionalist of her time, said she
appy because of the universal
ty, and yet she conversed at
imong the people the' most
in the world to speak, and the
ifiding : what would she have
)t. Petersburg ? M. de Mais-
there, but he was there with a
r'oman, bom in Russia, who
ne day, recognizing the mis-
er birth, live and die in. her true
the country of an incorruptible
d of a liberty which had only
se, becauise conversation has

always sustained it, Louis XIY. con-
versed at Mars'feilles without suspecting
that conversation would kill his despot-
ism. In the East, the destined seat of
absolute power, the })rince does not con-
verse ; he gives his order, and is silent.

It is impossible for two souls to meet
each other in a conversation which
mutually pleases them, without having
religion, sooner or later, enter into
their discourse. Religion is the inte-
rior vestment of the soul. There are
some who tear this vestment to tat-
ters ; tliere are others who soil it ; but
there are a few who despoil themselves
of it all save some shi^ed, and this shred,
such as it is, is sufficient to prevent them *
from appearing absolutely destitute
of divinity. Madame de Swetchine
was an unbeliever, and she. had be-
hind her, and beyond her unbelief, the
Greek schism. The Count de Maistre
was a Catholic, not only by faith, but
by direct mental intuition. He was at
that point where a man can say, so ob-
vious yras the truth to him : I believe
not, I see. What were the talks of
these two souls on a subject in regard
to which they had nothing in common,
except their genius ? What did they
say from 1803 to 1810, from the day
when they met for the first time, to
that on which one of them bent before
the other, owned herself vanquished,
and, on the bosom of friendship, sigh-
ed the last sigh of error ? Doubtless
Grod alone knows. Grod alone knows
the stratagems which suspended for
seven years the efficacy of an elo-
quence sustained by divine grace, and
disputed with it, step by step, the vic-
tim and the victory. However, two
immortal books of the Count de Mais-
tre : "Soir^s de Saint Petersbourg, and
the book Du Pape, may give us the
secret of that controversy lost to the
memory of man, but which we shall
one day find in that of God.

It is manifest that the wife of the
Governor of St.' Petersburg opposed
from the first to the ambassador of
Sardinia all the negations of the
eighteenth century,' those shadows
which Voltaire had invested with all

MadooM de Swetehine.

741

faith, and who live unknow-
ruth of which she is the de-
This is the church. As to
, all is said in these words
•d ascending to heaven : Cfo
all nations, baptizing them
ng them to keep my com-
\ The clergy are the apos-
e church ; they are the ven-
imit of faith, the army of
1 by God to spread the only
is infallible, the only force
quers the flesh, the only
ich gives humility. ^Who
hears me^* our Lord has

despises you despises me,**
nd must befall the clergy,
:, torture, death; there is
ing which they cannot and
t merit, contempt. When
*ered m the judgment hall
blows of the vilest execu-
en he bore his cross from

to Calvary, when he was
it in the face of the whole
re was against him from

earth, from Satan to man,
eeper and broader than
But respect survived ;
\ in washing his hands, the
in beholding the cross, the
weeping, the sun in hiding
^re the revelations of a cou-
nter than the punishment,
beld the astonished universe
tion and awe. Now, by a
of God, which is the chas-
f a fault of centuries, the
gy are despised. They are
>t only by the unbeliever but
ever ; they are despised by
at whose confessions they
3 purified Christians to whom
he body and blood of theur
B contempt is striking and
the pope or Greek priest

1 his forehead as an aveng-
uid even the kiss of the
rms and enlarges it.
)etween this spectacle and
of the Count de Maistre,'
light came to Madame de

and then commenced for
cond struggle, the straggle

of the truth against the holiest affec-
tions of the heart. Truth is, no doubt,
the great country of the mind ; it is
father, mother, brother, sister, and na-
tive land; but man has on earth an-
other family and another country, the
better he is the more he loves them,
and virtue, in so far as it is human,
makes them the cherished centre of
all that is good, amiable, and generous.
To these ties already so strong, religion
adds its divine influence, and from the
same table to the same altar man leads
his happiness, aud there attaches by a
single chain time and eternity. What
a blow is that when some day, by an evi-
dence which leaves no possible retreat,
the daughter shall see God standing
between her and her mother, between
her and her husband, between her and
her native country, and there shall be
said to her in the same voice which
Abraham heard : " Go ouSt from thy
land and thy kindred, and from the
house of thy father, and come to the
land which Is/tall show thee." There
are some, it is true, who think this voice
should never be heard, but for three
thousand years, since Abraham, it has
commanded and been obeyed. Grod
is stronger than man, and man is great
enough to sacrifice to truth more than
himself.

• Madame de Swetchine had not only
to -fear the rending of her heart, she
had before he^ an intolerance which
the opposition of our century had
only irritated. The Emperor Nicho-
las did not yet reign, but the con-
version of a Russian soul to the
Catholic Church was none the less
an act of high .treason, which exposed
her to ftie severities of the jnorrow,
if she escaped the inattention of the
evening. After having endured this
stormy situation for six or seven years,
Madame de Swetchine turned her eyes
toward ^ France, and obtained from
the Emperor Alexander, a generous
prince, himself agitated by an un-
known inspiration, the permission to
live there. France received her in
1818 at the age of thurty-four, in
the plenitude of her faculties ripened

742

Madame de Swetehine.

by a long intercouMe with men and
events.

It is not without a purpose that
God draws to himself a creature
condemned to error by all the ties
of family and country, and trans-
ports her far away to a foreign capi-
tal in the midst of a new people.
Much less so is it when this grace
falls on a choice intelligence, placed
in the first ranks of society, and who
unites in herself all the gifts of na-
ture, and all those of the world.
Paris since 1750 had been the centre
of the European mind. It had by
half a century's crusade against Christ,
drawn the nations from those old cer-
tainties to which they owed their ex-
istence. An unheard of revolution
had been the chastisement of this
fault, a chastisement so much the
more remarkable, as France had in-
voked just principles, confonned to
its ancient traditions, and as it was
the defect of a superior light to re-
strain herself, that she had traversed
everything with a devastating im-
petuosity. She had remained faith-
ful only to her swonl, and still after
twenty-five years of victory, worthy
of her happiest days, she had just
succumbed by excess in the battle-
fioM, and twice the foreigner had
soiled with his presence that superb
city, the mistress, by the asc(?ndency
of her intelligence, of the modem
worM. It was there on Uie day after
its reverses, that Providence conducted
Madame de Swetehine. The question
was to know if France, aware of the
urvd she had of God to reconstruct
her, would hear the voice of her
niisrortuiies; if recalled to hef ancient
kings, and reconciled in her old tem-
ples, she would consent to be again
Chri.>tian in oi-der to give her liberty
the sanction of the faith which had
alwuys guiiled and always serveil her.

Fi'w minds in either camp discem-
(h1 this relation of Christianity with
tlu? institutions of a liberally govern-
ed people. The example of England,
where the church had always support-
ed the commons, said but little to the

publicists who were i
with her Farliamei
Swetehine herself
author of Consid<
France, a master
ly the vices of the
tion, but who witho
and ])olitical libi*rt
comprehend, pcrhafi
necessity or all its
she had lived uiidei
she had had under h<
forty years a Chris
servile land, and thit
be lost on a mind as t
evils of liberty arc g
pie who do not kno\
it, who at every mo
jealousy, or go beyo
experience. But tli(
they may be, Ixdon:
tic*eship of liberty ai
sence ; they still h
space, and life, a res
ble, a hope for the
above all the sacn
good agahist evil,
good and evil sleep
low ; souls ai*e inva;
genenicy because the
a struggle to sustain,
itself, a protected victi
speakable humiliatio
its peace. Madame
this. Ilcr great boa
when she entered Pa
roar of tem^K'Sts she
time in her lite, at
but esteemetL It
have suffered fur lil
know its price. It
have passed under
schism, to be able fu
it is to breathe the atu
How o<\en have I s
Swetchine's eyes fill
thought that she w;
country ! How ofie
inwardly moved at
priest, a good re
brother of the Chri
a word, our Lord's id
brow or in a virtaoa
it is which here we

Madame de Sweichine*

748

can ciij^honor I know not how many hu-
man x&nd even divine things; but in
the sliipwreck Christ rcnuiins visible
to us ia many who worthily love and
•erve lim.

Tile life of Madame de Swetchine

daring the forty years she passed in

our midst was one continual thanks-

giviA«^. More than once under a reign

of persecution, like that of the Em-

petor Nicholas, she had fears for the

Mcarity of her sojourn in France.

OQce^ notwithstanding her great age,

lihfi l>elieved it necessary not to leave

U to the zeal even of her most tried

finends, and rushed to St. Petersburg

to implore the forg(».tfulness of the

Cor. God still saved her. She had

ioqaired such a prestige, that it might

be said that she re|)resented at Paris

the hionor and intelligence of Russia,

and this, it is probable, was what, in

tbe most difficult times, saved her from

being recalled.

This dependence which she still had
on her country, because her estates
there might be held to answer for her
personal conduct, imposed on her an
extreme prudence in a saloon which
was frequented by her compatriots
and by men of all ranks and all opinions.
Bat this reserve, which she had ac-
qtoired as a habit in her own country,
detracted nothing from the grace and
sincerity of her discourse ; whether she
was silent or whether she expressed
her thoughts, according to the degree
of confidence inspired by those present,
she never betrayed it ; and in her si-
lence even, she seized things on the
side which remained accessible, and
gave them clearness enough to instruct
without displeasing. An exquisite
naturalness covered her S[>eech, though
tact and unexpectedness were its most
usual charaoteristics. When she met
Madame de Stael for the first time,
each knew the other without being
told ; and happening to be placed at
<^posite comers of a large hall, they
observed each other with curiosity.
Madame de Stael, accustomerl to hom-
age, waited for Madame de Swetchine
to ame to her. Seeing she did not, she

all at once crowed the long space which
separated them, stopped l^'fore her,
and said in a lively and airessin^
tone : " Do you know, Madame, that I
am much hurt by your coldness towaixl
me ? " " Madame," was the rc|)ly, " it
is for the king to salute first." This
remark can give some idea of the
ingenuous and submissive style of
Madame de Swetchine's conversation.
Different from Madame de Stai'^, who
disserted rather than conversed, Mad-
ame de Swetchine raised her voice
but shghtly, and had no ac(;ont of dom-
ination ; she waited her time without
impatience, without caring for success,
always more happy to phrase than
ambitious to dazzle. An inexhaustible
interest in those whom she had once
loved, gave to her intimacy a sweet
and maternal character. 1 ler genius
was approached as a focus of light,
no doubt, but with a filial disposition
which endeared its brilliancy, which
was the fruit of a goodness as mani-
fest as was her intiiilleetual superi-
ority. Introduced into the highest
French society by the Duchesse de
Duras and the ilarquise de Mont-
calm, sisters of the Due de Richelieu,
she was not long in making felt around
her that attraction which is produced
in society by acknowledged eminence
of character. What slic had been
when young at St. Petersburg in her
husband's salons^ she was in the heart
of France ; but what at St. Petersburg
was only a conquest of suffrages and
of admiration, became at Paris an
apostolate.

When a soul passes to God's side,
that is to say, to the side of Christian-
ity, the only expression hei-e below of
the divine life, she can find nowhere
else the principles and motives of her
actions. All in her proceeds from
the sacred height and returns to it,
Madame de Swetchine lived in the
world, but was not of it ; she was held
to it only by its good — only to make
her protest for God, and to serve him ;
an admirable office in which the world
assumes all its grandeur; in which
fallen under the strokes of a mind that

744

MadamB de Swetehtne,

knows what it is worth, Jt arises and oc-
cupies with him every instant of thought,
and every vibration of the heart. He
who is disabused by the simple ex-
perience of life, despises the world,
while he who is disabused by lif;ht
from on Uigh esteems it. Being then
no longer in the world for the world,
Madame de Swetcliinc was more than
ever there for God ; she followed his
course with all-powerful interest, at-
tentive to seize whatever might re-
move or approach her to the principle
of all life. M. de Maistre was no more.
A different school from his was form-
ing : Madame de Swetchine saw unfold
its first germs, and she surrounded
with her counsels and her affection the
young representatives of an idea which
her recollections, perhaps, would have
repulsed, but which the freedom of her
mind rendered her capable of judging,
for this was the character as the tem-
per of her genius. In a time of in-
tellectual dependence, in which parties
bore away everything in their train,
Madame de Swetchine made no en-
gagement, and submitted to no at-
traction; she isolated every question
from the noise around her, ami placed
it in the silence of eternity. Tims was
one sure after having heard all that was
said, to encounter on crassing her
threshold something which had not
been heard, nn original view of the
truth ; and evenwhen she was mi>-
taken, a proof that her thouglit did
not belong to herself alone, because
she sought it in God.

It was after the failure of L'Avenir
that I first saw her. I approach-
ed the borders of her soul as a
seaweed broken by the waves, and I
rememlMjr yet, after twenty-five years,
how she placed her light and strength
at the Hcrvice of a young man unknown
to her. Ilcr counsels sustained me
both against di^spondency and exalta-
tion. One day when she thought she
noticed in my words a doubt or lassi-
tude, she said to me with a singular
accent, the simple words : *• Take care."
She was wonderful in discovering the
point to which ^ne inchued, and wherp

it was necessary to he
unce. The meoi^uri* of I
was so perfect, the frei-ti
judgment so remark aul?,
long in comprehending to
to what she was d^^votod.
others I should have knowr
what was to be said, hei
most always ignomnt, ai
did I feel myself more oat c
This charm from above ^
fused over me alone.
my predecessors or my iwi;
felt its action, and it i> ir
say for how many souls tlii
was a lamp. Not only
fixed hours, not only t lie <•
midnight, but at almost evi
confidence sought ln.r wit
t unity which was never c*"i
Thus was formed around
I know not what eoui:tr}-
of all times andof ull hxm
the truth which was its gr
mosphei'e, its ligiit, and ha
Nature, it is evident, cc
fice of itself to feed this ii
conversation. It was noii
as.'iiihions reading of all
markahle wliieh ap[>«'arr«l
No book, as no man, v<i*:
dent curiosity. After tljf
the Count de Maistiv, who
taste, ^ladaine do Swi-ie
marked every pa'jre whirl:
and in her first hisure h^
two eon veysat ions slur en
ligiit leaf of bras 5 the ih<
had illumined her.^. She
own reflections with ;h«» i
first glance, and tlii* trip!
with lK)oks, men, and lie
was never interrupteil, *:iv
telligence a spring whieh w
hausted. What, however,
of tlie eontnidietion-4 of
were the princii>!es whieii
and of which she sheil an
unfailing clearness ? In n.'e;
collect ions of lier, I should s:
Our Lonl the life of heave
the Catholic Church, the
of the mind, f>eenuse it uln
the foundation of faith :uid

^J^AKIV

Madtaiu de Swetehiiu.

cbaritj ; Rome, the centre of
»rld, because she is the centre
:hurch ; the human family pro-
e on a basis that does not
; civil and political liberty, the
er of Christianity ; commerce,
7, science, aD* grand things,
der things grander still, honor
3tice ; all man's toil powerless
inish poverty without virtue ;
t, a people loved by God — ^its
ion a vengeance and a mercy, a
nder ruins ; philosophy, as old
I, the vestibule of Christianity
lot as yet enlightened by faith,
. crown when faith has trans-
it ; reason, the inborn light
\ philosophy proceeds, and which
anity perfects ; the fiiture, an
lin abyss, but in which Grod is
and ; error, a crime sometimes,
nessoftener; tolerance, anhom-
the truth, a proof of faith;
rhich is next to impotency ; au-
< an ascendency which has its
in antiquity and in right ; prop-
16 union of man with the earth
>r, the first liberty of the world,
; which no other subsists ; liberty
ranty of right against whatever
•ight These, if my memory is
, are the sound which at every
ind under every touch was
forth by that harmonious lyre
ffe now hear no more. A con-
mplicity in an equal elevation,
oess which came from Christ,
her doctrines, apart from their
8 truth, a personal influence. In
\ her this double charm might
ited, but she could not be hated
ised ; she could not but be loved,
ipire the desire to become better,
mouth, which for forty years
lot^an enemy to Grod, but which
into a multitude of wounded or
hing heai*ts the germ of the res-
)D and the rapture of life,
perhaps I deceive those who
e. They may persuade them-
that the friend of the Count
stre and of so many eminent
ma won their friendship only
nerit of a superior intelligence.

That would be much, but in Madame
de Swetchine it was not all. Intellect,
when it comes from God, is insepara-
ble from charity. Madame de Swetch-
ine loved the poor. Like Frederic
Ozanam, another blessing of Provi-
dence that we have lost, she knew how
to forget science in presence of misfor-
tune, and her lips, accustomed to things
profound, had only divine things in the
face of suffering and death. In enter-
ing her dwelling this might not be be-
lieved. Pictures by the great masters,
dazzling candelabras, precious vases,
books enclosed under crystals richly
encased, flowers and drapery, all sug-
gested the idea of costly magnificence
hardly compatible with the secret love
of the unfortunate. But, as I have
said, Madame de Swetchine had in
all things, even in duty, a point of view
which was her own. Persuaded that
she owed it to her family and to her
country, to represent them worthily in
the capital of a great people, she had
the art of being simple in the midst of
a splendor which she considered neccs-
- sary, and to find economy in unseen
privations. Long before her death,
for example; she had no carriage. She
walked with, scrupulous exactness to
the offices of St. Thomas of Aquina,
her parish church, although she had a
private chapel, and though her age as
well as her infirmities would permit her
to remain at home or go out only in a
carriage.

One day her secret escaped her.
Troubled, I imagine by soinething she
had read, or some discourse which
I had made her, she asked me with a
kind of anxiety if I believed that in
giving a sixth part of her income to the
poor, she accomplished the precept of
almsgiving. Another time, when some
early vegetables were served at her
table, at which I appeared surprised :
^ What would you T* she said to mie ;
" there are people who raise these for
us; would it not be ungrateful for
those who can, not to recompense them
for their labor ?* This remark open-
ed to me a new order of ideai. I
understood that riches should not be

746

Madame de Sweichine*

used simply to support those who can-
not gain their own living whether from
want of Hti-ennjth or want of work, but
that they Hhould also, aecordin^j to
their amount, be used to prt>tect all
the honest developments of human
toil. It is thus that in the beautiful
davs of Venic<?, Gr<?noa, Florence, and
of Pisa, so many Christian mercliants
raised immortal monuments to i\\v\T
count r}', and that at Rome so many
csirdinals have built palaces. Ma<|:ni
ficence is a virtue, says St. Thomas
Aquinas, when it is regulated by rea-
son, and very difl\»ivnt from luxury,
^\hich is vanity and ruin.

At JMadame de Swetchine's house
was seen a mute, whom she had
adopted as if in return for the gill
of speech, which she had received in so
eminent a dej^nw^. It was lier custom
to associate tiie care of the poor with
the ha[)py events of her life. Each of
them recalled a happiness which lie
represented. She visited them on
fixed days; she herself carried them
assiatani*e, and alM>vc all the light of
h<T pr-esonce. This intercourse kept
alive in her the memory of the man,
so (piick to he effact'd from thof^e who
have not tlie memory of God. She
contiiuied it even to the last days of
her life; and wIkmi already the breath
was uncertain and trembling on Inn-
lips, she askj'd for accounts of her
pt)or. 1 saw, when we were geat«'d
around the sad couch of this beautiful
light, her dear inutc* watching from an
adjoining ehamher, a vigilant sentinel
of a lif«' which had given her so much
of itself, and whirh was fading away
betw<*en friendship remaining faithful,
and poverty n*maining grat^'ful.

Shall I speak, a tier the jKwr, of thai
bi^loved chapel, where tin' former un-
believer of St. l*ett'i>bnrg opened l:er
heart before the (^od of her maturity ?
It was there, above all, that she livrd,
ami there that she had gathered into a
narrow space all that taste and ri<hes
could do to express and satisfy her
love. Charming and pious sanctuary !
you could not contain many souls, but
there was one which sulliccd to till

you, and which you lille<l also. N
you arc no more. IX-ath lias Av*\
ed the seats where so many frii
came to pray; where pniyrr wai
sweet, and j>eace so pmfound.
shall see you no nion'. nor your
ages, nor your precious stoii*"*.
the tabernacle where at tht^ >itl
the Lonl n»|)osed tlie viitu«- all e
of our friend. You ha-l h-r
thou^^lit ; it was of you shr mnrin
at the moment etmiity siizid
carried her l>eforc God. Can 1,
better end than with yon ? For w
should I still ask n rt*inembnin
tear, an admiration ?

For sevenil years IMadanu
Swetchine had had preluili-s ol'
end. The consequenct-s of a
had lefl on her face a st ri4>u»
which at intervals and without «
ing, rcndereil s]>eaking vrry \kx\
This pain did not arre-l ili»'
ture of her communication's. SIh
mained what she had evi r b-rn
mistress of herself, and on ii pied
all, whming hearts as in the liu}
her youth, when the Count de Mii
sent her his {Kirtrait with iIk-c a..
written by his own han 1 :

Vult-;:. iiiiaL.''*. r! initi-/ p;-. ■
Ou I'lTigiiul M- pint la..;."

Happier than this great man wii>
only the first da^vning of Supliir
Soymonoff, we have enj»»y(il lirr
fret day ; he tbnned her tor u-,
haj)pier herself than her ma-iir.
could, by the clearness of a inup
IV a son, bring to her aire a jjidjimi
which hope sur[»assrd fear, and w
Ik'si indicated the tru«» rouii- to ni
desirous of kntiwin^ an. I ser\i:i
Hut at last we had t*» lo«:e her. E'
star below fades, every tr a.-ur*?
ishes, every soul is n-callrd.
di«l not spare his servant the U'l
of death, but he h-lt \wv lo siina
them the intluence which .-he liU'
quired over all thing> by mvi ii:\
years of combat. Sealed iti ht r j-;
to the last hour, she ciKiiiinied i-
ceive those whoai she lovi-il, tu j;

Madame de Swetchine.

747

to them of themselves, and of the fu-
ture, to foresee all, and to animate all.
Her reclining figure rafsed itself to
smile, she kept the accent and the
thread of her thought, and her eyes
with their serenity still hrightened the
Coaching scene in which we disputed
for her with God. A last shock took
her from us on the 10th September,
1857, at six o'clock in the morning,
having a few days before received
the viaticum and the unction of eternal
life.

Alas ! dear and iUustrious lady. I
cannot attach to your name the glory of
those Roman women whom St. Jerome
has immortalized, and yet you were
of their race : you were of the race
of thoRe women who followed Christ
through all the stations of his pilgrim-
age, who watched him as he died, who
embalmed him in his tomb, and who
were the first to salute him on the morn-
ing of his resurrection. You beh'eved all
and saw alL Bom in schism, brought
up in unbelief, God sent you to open
your eyes, one of the rarest minds
of this century ; his hand touched
your eyelids, and the sight which
your country refused you, came to you
irom foreign skies. A Christian, you
aspired to the liberty of Christ ; con-
quered for God through the language
of France, you wished to live under
the French speech, and quitting a coun-
try you always loved, you came among
US with the modesty of a disciple and
of an exile. But you brought us moi*e
than we gave you. The light of your
flool illumined tlie land which receiv-
ed you, and for forty years you were
for OS the sweetest echo of the gospel,
and the surest road to honor. No failure
annoyed yon, no success ensnared you ;
you were ever the same, because truth
andjustice do not change. Ah! doubt-
less your mission was to do us good in
oar Qjale West, but you had another mis-
sion, I believe ; you wei*e near us as
an advance guard of the conversion of

the East Daughter of Greece ! God
wished to show us in your person, as
he already had in several of your com-
patriots, what will, one day, be that
old church of our first fathers in the
faith, when, brought back from a fatal
separation, she sliall receive from the
might of St. Peter that emission of
unity which she formerly sent us from
Jerusalem and Antioch, and of whicii
we guard for her with fidelity the
precious deposit Yes, we trust the
love which you preserved for your
country; trust the presentiments of
your Evangelist, the great Count de
Maistre ; trust in the long hopes of the
Latin Church,and its constant respect for
Christian Greece. Yes, sooner or later,
the East will bend before the West, as a
brother before a brother. St Sophia
will hear resound again' in the two
languages the symbol wliich has not
ceased to unite us. Liberty of consci-
ence, acquired by the human race, will
no longer permit error to guard itself
by persecution. Veils will full ; the
obscure victims of political fear sliake
off their chains ; all minds from oim)
end of Europe to the other will
follow tlie inelination of nature and
grace ; and if there remain, as
there must, unbelievers and Pi-otes-
tants, at least there will remain no
longer a nation crucified for error.
In those days, dear and noble friend
whom we have lost, and live here to
weep — in those days, you will raise a
liitle your cold stone at Moiitmartro,
you will breathe an instant the air
in which you liv.ed, and recognizing
at once the balm of your first and
of your second country, you will bless
God who called you before others, and
to whom you responded with that
faith without stain which enlightened
us ourselves, and by that unconquerable
hope which sustained us against all
the failures of a century so fruitful in
lapses and abortions.

748

lie Off.

THE CRY.

I SAIL on an ocean at midnight.
With darkneds above aod below ;

And never a star in the heaven
To pilot me where I would go.

Fierce tempests that roar in the midnighti
The tempests both cruel and strong,

Are driving me hither and thither ;
What wonder if I should go wrong ?

Many thousands of others are sailing,
Like me, o'er this tempest- vexed sea,

All bound for the very same haven,
All bound to the same land with me.

But some to the leflward are sailing.
Whilst others they steer to the right ;

I oft hear the voice of the captains

Who hail me aloud through the night

Each one, though so diversely s^ng,
Calls out to me, *' You are astray !

For this is the course you should steer by
To enter the kingdom of day.

** See, yonder the light shineth clearly,
Right full on the way that we go.**
But which is the right and the true way,
Oh ! tell me, for how can I know.

I look where they're pointing before them,

But never a star do I see ;
Where they tell me the beacon is shining

Is nothing but darkness to me.

My soul is athirst with its longing
To rest on the beautiful shore.

Where is felt not the surge of the billows.
Where the tempest is heard nevermore :

The Answer. 749

E.T.

Where the gardens of amaranth blossom,
And meadows of green asphodel

Fill the air with a fragrance immortal ;
Where the satisfied voyagers dwell

Who have passed o'er this ocean before me,

And rest with the holy of old,
In the city whose walls are of jasper.

And roofs of the finest of gold. •

O Lord of the wonderful city 1
O King of the kingdom of day I

Let the light of thy truth shme out clearly
To pilot me safe on my way I

THE ANSWER.

I hear thee, my child, in the darkness ;

I know where thou wishest to be :
But why in a pilotless vessel

Didst venture alone on this sea ?

Thy way is in doubt and in darkness.
Because thou dost voyage alone,

Hejecting tlie old Ship of safety.
To choose a frail bark of thine own.

That vessel is sailing beside thee.
Its course the great Pilot controls.

The tempest will ne'er overcome it-
It never will wreck on the shoals.

Who sail in this old Ship of safety.
Know nolihing of doubt or of strife.

How can they with him who commands it —
The Way, and the Truth, and the Life?

And all through the mist and the darkness

Faith shows a mysterious way,
O^er which sails the good ship of Peter

Straight on to the kingdom of day !

A.T.

760

The Oodfrey Family; ofy Quettiafu of A$ Dtg.

-i

THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF

CHAPTSE XXrV.
DEATH OP MK8. GODFREY.

A MISSIVE soon brought M. Ber-
tolot to the trio. He came as secret-
ly as possible, and departed in the
same way ; not so secretly, however,
as to prevent his visit being shortly
made known to Alfred Brookbank,
who, with the view of making a final
breach between Sir Philip and his
wife, had set spies to watch the
movements of the party. He dis-
covered from the- jealousy of the
neighbors the intimacy at the Irish
cottage, and surmised the attraction
which produced these visits, but could
make no use of this surmise until his
agent recognized in M. Bertolot the
French priest who bad accompanied
the countoss to England. The secrecy
of the visit told its purport. Alfred
now informed Sir Philip, as if he liad
just made the discovery, that Annie
had been in Eugene's company all
the time she had been away; that
("■atholics were their only society, and
that a priest visited them in secret,
adding that there could be no rational
doubt that Lady Conway and her
mother wore both Catholics.

Sir Philip's indignation was ex-
cessive. "Without taking time to con-
sider the matter at all, he ordered his
carriajre and drove post-haste t(x Est-
court Hall, to which j)lace the family
were now summoned in consequence
of the inereasing weakness of AIi-s,
Godfrey.

JNIrs. Godfrey had been brought
there by short stages, and had ar-
rived tlie ni^'Iit before. Mr. Godfrey
and Hester were there to meet her,
and to Ile.-Jter's great joy she was
once more pressed lovingly to her

mother's heart, who wa
happy to see her child rei
in affection. Adelaide it
pected ; and when Sir PI
appearance he was 8up|
in obedience to .a simil
Mr. Godfrey received 1
Philip's agitation was i
made no answer to tl
greeting. He looked roi
and seeing they w ere ale
a choking voice :

" Js Lady Conway he;

** She is ; she arrived

** And her brother En;

^ Is here also."

**And have they beei
this time? O Mr. God
have deceived me !"

Mr. Grodfrey was puz2
constitutionally timid, and
just now in no mood fo
so he said quietly: *•!
harm come of it ?"

** Harm ! What can be
than that Annie and her i
both of them be papists ?

"Is it that which fr
Be composed, my dear
such thoughts from your
has too much sense for tl
poor wife, she has been
in the head lately, it is tr
not given that way in the
besides, I greatly fear sh
long ; her strength is les:
have imagine<l. Come j

But Sir Philip was al
idea. *' I tell you," said
mischief is alreaily don
wife and mine have both
knees to a priest, and th
of both families are alrea(
to Rome."

^ Impossible.^' said Mi

7%e GodfiiBy Family ; or, Questions of the Day.

751

7," said Sir Philip ; ** ask the
)n ; if they dare deny it, I will
e the proofs.**

Grodfreylaid his harrd on the
pe. A servant appeared. " Re-
Mr. Eugene to come to me im-
ely." The man bowed and dis-
ed. Eugene soon entered. The
'as carefully closed. Sir Philip
carcely keep himself from spring-
him ; but Mr. Godfrey stood be-
them, and said in^ hollow voice :
;ne, answer without circumlo-

or disguise, say j^ea or no, are

mother and sister Annie Cath-
»

ley are."

Godfrey pointed to the door;
lid not speak. Eugene left the
The two strong men trembled
npotcnt rage.

curse has fallen upon the
** muttered Mr. Godfrey at
, as he paced the room. " Who
liave dreamed of this ?"
r. Godfrey," said Sir Philip,
les of thunder, "you will tell
daughter that she never again
liter my doors. Prepare what
Qcnts you please, send them to
iwyer ; anything in reason I
onsent to, but see her agaui I
ot.**

quitted the house, nor did he
ee his injured wife again,
rcely had Sir Philip's carriage
I away when another drove up,
ning Adelaide, the young Dow-
Duchess of Durimont. She en-
the house in a scarcely less agi-
state than Sir Philip had left it
mt her excitement proceeded
ther from a different cause,
g Adelaide's, numerous faults,
of affection for her mother cer-
did not form one. On the con-
she was accustomed not only to
ut to reverence her mother as a
superior woman. Through the
ne of youth, while enjoying
armth of a mother's fondness
protection, Adelaide's affections
trengthened without that sen-
xdity of expression which Mra.

Grodfrey would have taught her to
repress had she seen it manifested,
but they were none the less deep or
tender for having hitherto found no
occasion of great display. On the first
intimation she had received of her
mother's illness, Adelaide had hasten-,
ed at once to JEstcourt Hall, and was
with difficulty persuaded by Mr Grod-
frey to retire. He feared that Ade-
laide's presence would but increase the
excitement under which Mrs. Godfrey
labored, and as the doctor's opinion
was to that effect also, Adelaide was
compelled, however reluctantly, to
yield. They gave her no clew what-
ever 2A to the cause of her mother's
malady, and though she had a general
idea of some unworthy transaction in
which Eugene was wronged and Hes-
ter eniiched, she ^id not enter into
particulars, nor mentally connect tlie
facts with her mother's illness. The
only effect it had upon her was to
estrange her from Hester, and in a
slighter degree from her father also.

When she heard that Eugene and
Annie were summoned to her mother's
side, again she endeavored to share
their cares ; but Mr. Godfrey was
fearful of suffering too great inter-
course between Adelaide and Eugene,
and used his utmost endeavors to dis-
suade her. He insisted that the phy-
sicians absolutely ordered that none
should approach her save those she
asked for. The father dreaded the
judgment of the daughter when she
should know the cau^eof her mother's
trouble. He was accustom.-^d to be
looked up to by his children, and
shrank from incurring the disapprov-
al of this one in particular ; for Ade-
laide had ever been considered the
most talented and the most intellec-
tual of the family. He had a sort
of consciousness that to the mother's
influence in veiling his foibles from
his children's eyes, he owed much
of that reverence with which they
habitually approached him ; and he
could but feel that he had made but
a poor return for a life of devotedncss,
when he refused to yield to the first

752

2^ Godfrey Fawiy ; otj Queitiom of ii§ Dag.

!!■

I I

■ i

important domand she had ever made
him, and that in favor of his own son.

But now Eugene had written to
Adelaide to say her mother was calm,
and would welcome her. Adelaide en-
tered her fatlier's house pale and trem-
bling, an attendant supporting her.

'' Is slie still alive ?^ she whispered,
as she saw her father ; then, as if fear
ful ho would still oppose her seeing
Mrs. Godfrey's, she refused by a
gesture to enter the sitting-room, but
made her way at once up the broad
staircase to the room her mother had
ever been wont to occupy. She open-
ed the door, and flinging herself on her
knees by the side of the bed, took the
pale hand, and, as she kissed it, said,
with streaming eyes : ** Ah I dear
mother, why was I not permitted to
come to you before ?"

'* And who forbade you, my love V*

** My father said the doctors — **

Mrs. GU)drrey looked at Iier husband,
who had followed Adelaide into the
room ; there was surprise and sor-
row, but no anger on her counte-
nance. She pressed Adelaide's hand
and whispered, "Perhaps he was
Ti'^ht. I was unconscious and de-
lirious a long while, my poor child;
but now you will stay with me the
little time that I remain on earth.''

" You feel better to-day, my dear
mother," said Annie, hopefully.

'* I do, but it cannot last ; wo must not
deceive ourselves. I am glad to sec
my dear Adelaide, but I cannot talk
to her yet."

The effort of saying even so much
exhausted her ; she lay back, and they
watched long hours in silence by her
pillow.

Day after day passed away, the
loving children surrounding her, and
Mr. Godfrey sharing their watch. All
traces of excitement had gone, in the
solemnity of that watch. 3Ir3. God-
frey seemed so thoroughly iu peace,
that that peace seemed to pass into
the circle of hearts surrounding her.
She became, however, perceptibly
weaker (jvery day. Ten days after
Adelaide's arrival she whispered to

her one morning: "Tell ;
I wish to speak to him."
' Adelaide summoned \
Whatever were the wor
they appeared to distresa
much. He gazed at li
though in a stupor. Sh
hand and faintly whisperec
wishes, can you refuse then
said he, half choked, "* he s
for ;" and he left her to se
That evening a stranger v
by Eugene, as it were by
his mother's room. Annh
present. The last sacnin
church were administere
stranger priest pa.<sed do\
staircase so secretly that
of or susi)ected his visit
present and Mr. Goilfrey,
sisted on such secrecy beir

Adelaide had at lenp^tii >
the facts concerning her bi
disinherited, and tlie efr»»ci
action had produced on Mr
mind. A grciU feeling of r
Hester was the conseiiuen
manner soon betniyed !fy lUj
feelings that swayed her.

** I can never again call
she whispered, half-aloul,
her meditation by her mo
Mrs. Godfrey's cyt-s r)j)f/
children, love one anoilior
" Love, for he loved ev^'u si
give, for he forg:ive tho^i*
lied him." She sank to s>lot
nouncing these word:«. a:i>
watchers bent over her i
prolonged that slee;) to pj
time, they found that the :
fied spirit had already win
to the mansions of the ble?

Of all the mourners the
the grief of Adelaide wa^ tl
lent. The feelings of Aim
gene were tempered by th»
their mother was now h;i
she had ever been bofon*
were modified by the deep
in which she was plunged
that her mother had rocei*
sight into that faith of win
caught but a glimpse, au

7//

TkB Godfrey Family; or, Questions of the Day.

758

earnestly desired to know
^ut she dared not question
or Annie, for fear of anger-
father and her mother ! ** O
pray for me 1" was in her
d cliecked the outward de-
ion of her grief,
i^ere standing round the cof-

four children, whom she had
10 faithfully tiirough the cares
^rs of childhood ! No pride

had withdrawn her from ful-
r nursety duties ; no sloth, no
I of riches had caused her to
to hireling hands the cultiva-
heir infant minds; riches io
1 been a3 an accessory, not, as
happens, causing a withdraw-
ternal offices. IIow had they
lier ? Oil 1 happy they who can

the bier of those to whom

bound by duty or by love,
no remorse for duty ofk neg-

de was standing on one side
ad of the coffin, rapt in grief,
md Annie were on the other
ester at the foot absorbed io
bought, but tearless and as it
o Adelaide not paying hom-
r thoughts to that dear mother,
le even then dwelfing. on her
schemes ?** The thought mad-
lelaide, and forgetting the self-
br which she was usually so
}le, she in the overmastering
)f the moment seized Hcster^s
her to the head of the coffin,
ting to the sweet pale face be-
Q, said in a frenzied tone, re-
of the presence of Mr. God-
) just then entered the room :
d you dare to wring the heart
nost noble woman ? Was it
f?hom she loved so dearly, to
r loving spirit:, and then stand
ilmly contemplating her re-
IIow my heart loathes you 1"
h \ hush I dear sister," said Eu-
derly, as he disengaged her
m Hester, who fell nearly
ito her father's arms. ** Hush!
, hash ! she bade us love each
»u have misconceived this mat-

VOL. IV. 48

ter. Come with me, I will explain
it" — and he took her to another apart-
ment, and tried to make her under-
stand Hester's intentions of ultimately
settling all according to equity, while
Mr. Godfrey and Annie did tlieir best
to restore Hester to her usual equa-
nimity.

Mr. Godfrey was so much moved by
this affront put upon his darling that
he forgot his intention of keeping Mrs.
Grodfrey's change of religion secret,
and in the evening he called Adelaide
to his private study, and there explain-
ed that the delusions under which her
dear mother had labored had no par-
ticular reference to Hester, but were
caused by religion. **In fact,'* said
^Ir. Godfrey, '• what she wanted the
. day you came to summon me to her,
was a Catholic priest. Of course I
refused her nothing ; the priest came
that night, but secretly, out of respect
to the reputation of the family."

« Was my mother a Catholic?"

" She became one latterly."

"And was it for her religion that
you persecuted her ?*'

" Persecuted her ! Why, Adelaide,
how dare you apply such words to your
father ? Your mother was never perse-
cuted ; even when out of her mind she
had eveiything she asked for, and as I
tell you, a Catholic priest attended her
the other evening. Persecuted, in-
deed !"

Adelaide cared not to pursue a>
theme which brought her out as her
father s accuser, though the impres-
sion still remained on her mind that
injustice had occasioned the illness and
subsequent death of her mother, and
this prevented her from recalling the
offending words.

The father and daughter parted
somewhat coldly that evening, nor were
matters much mended by the family
consultation held shortly afterward as
to what was to become of Annie. Sir
Philip's message was now first deliv-
■ered to her, as Alfred Brookbank had
arrived as his agent, with offers of set-
tlement for Mr. Godfrey's approba-
tion.

-VI

754

The Godfrty Family; or, Questions of ike Dag.

I- .

"And is Annie not to see her own
children again ?" asked the duchess, as
she ga/.ed on the speechless, the ago-
nized face of her sister.
" So sujs Sir Philip."
" But have you reasoned with him
on the suhject ? Have you protested
against such a monstrous piece of ty-
ranny ?"

"It were useless, may it please your
grace," interposed the soft low tones of
Alfred Brookbank, who was secretly
gloat inp; in the agony of his Ticlim.
" It were perfectly useless. Sir Phil-
ip's hatred of papistry — **

" Plciu^e to s[)eak with more respect
of thc5 Holy Catholic Church, Mr.
Brookbank," interrupted the duchess.
** I beg pardon ; I knew not that
your grace — **

♦'It matters not what you knew,**
haughtily rejoined the duchess. **It
behoves every man of common sense,
or of common etlucation, to speak re-
spectfully of a faitli which for so many
centuries has formed the religion not
only of the commonalty but of the he-
roes of the mce. The names of Alfred
the Great and Charlemagne, of Coper-
nicus and JMichaelAngelo, with count-
less otiiers, may weigh a little perhaps
against the opinion of so enlightencHl
an individual as Sir Philip C^onway."
The withering sarcasm of tone with
which tliis was uttered made Mr. God-
frey bite his lips. He felt at once that
he iiad not lowered her mother in Adc^
laide's estimation by informing her of
that mother's becoming a Catholic ; and
he began to wonder which would be
the nt'Xt seceder from rationalistic
principh*. " A curse is fallen ui)on
our house," he again muttered between
his teeth.

The conference was necessarily a
painful one ; but it was with indescrib-
able surprise and emotion that the
assembled family heard jSIr. Godfrey
propose that Annie should take ref-
uge in the convent in which dwelt her
friend Eu[>hrasie.

"Why, piipa," whispered Hester,
" have you changed your opinion of
convents ? You used to call them sinks

of iniquity. Why do you
prison Annie in one I""

'' Hush, my dear," answ
ther, in the lowest passible \
convents are not alike-
know the antecedents of t
ess and of several of the
one ; they arc all lailies o:
and are altogether abov
They are austere fanatici
Annie will take no vows, a
will see the extent of the f<
religious enthusiasm lays
a twelvemonth's n»siden«
poor Clan»s does not set 1
order, then she is irrecove
us — we may set her down j
insane.''

While this little dialo;ru
on, Eugene and Adelaide,
severally, were urging An
a homo with one or othc
selves, each promising to d<
to regain for her the eu<
children ; but Annie, while
fully thanked them for the
decided that, at h^ast till sin
time f<»r reflection, slir won
her father's advice*, that i
the sisterhood would conser
her.

After vainly endeavorinj
her resolution, the duchess
accomjianyini^ her to the n
whether suitable amingeii
be made for her comfort.

CHAPTER XXV.

TDK JOUllNEV— THK l^)!

It was well for Anni«' th
of a sister watehed over ]
that sad journey, for soin
mind seemed almost to h:\
balance, and she would wee
ly over the loss of her litt
one who would not be I'omtV
with a sudden revolution of
would stop, and say, -Tl
done, O Lord," and would bt
her beads, as Eugene had i
with most edifying resignati(
awhile the thought of her
would make her weep anew,

The Godfrey Fcamly ; or, QuetHone of the Bay.

755

the thoaght of God would check her
tears.

These alternations were for Annie
alone, however. Adelaide felt unmiti-
gated disgust at the barbarity which
could sever a loving mother from her
infants.

** As if those babes were safer with
fliat bigoted, soft-pated Mrs. Bedford
Aan with mj intellectual, high-minded
niter!* she thought Certainly the
dndiess's horror of Catholicity had
wcnderfolly abated of late. There was
little said at first between the sisters
on that three days' journey. But once
or twice the exclamation on Adekide's
EpSy ** My mother a Catholic !" show-
ed which direction her thoughts were
taking; Once, when Annie was a
little calmer than usual, she suddenly
Mked her : ^ What made my mother
desire to be a Catholic, Annie ?''

''The grace of God, as I humbly
kope," answered her sister.

"The grace of God! What do you
■ean by that, Annie r

''I mean the special provision with
vhich God deigns to bless every hu-
■■n soul that desires it with knoW'
Uge and love of iumself. Adam had
Ak grace conferred on him at his
tteitioo. He lost it, not only for
^■islf, but for us also. But Christ
^ lepnrchased it for all who come
toUm. My mother heard this voice
Ijtiding within her for a higher life,
m listened and obeyed. This is
*bt theologians call co-operation
^ grace. The grace of God
Medi man's co-operation to be effi-
*K>OQS, because Grod will not compel
fte hnnan wilL He desires free ser-

■*Ahy jeSf*' said the duchess, '^ all

ler were a mockery. Nature is

kand by stem, inevitable law ; that

ii easily seen: but intelligent love

aunt have freedom for its sphere of

ifidoo, or it ceases to be the love of

iotelligence $ that, too, I comprehend.

I thought your words intended to

convey some mysterious action of

God on the soul not given to all

" All do not correspond with it, by
a large nuyority, I fear," said Annie.

^ And think you Grod speaks to all
alike ?" asked Adelaide.

" Theologians say that a grace cor-
responded to merits another," answer-
ed Annie, "and that one rejected or
unused often loses that grace, so
slighted. This, at least, we know :
Grod loves us all, and places at our
option higher dc^:^s of spiritual at-
tainment than we oftentimes profit
*y."

"God! What is God?" murmured
Adelaide. " Truly a Deus absconditus
for man."

" * He who followeth me walketh not
in darkness,* said the ]>Ian-God," re-
plied Annie. " Grod was a hidden
Grod for the nations of olden time,
perhaps; but for us, Adelaide, he
is Groid manifested in the flesh! and
to as many as receive him gives he
power to become * sons of God.' "

Where was Adelaide's 8hari)ne8S at
repartee as of old? She meditated
now instead of replying, and Annie
solaced her own sorrows by pray in v
for her sister's conversion. It was in
something like tranquillity of spirit
that she reached the district in which
the convent was situated.

The next day tlie duchess accom-
panied her sister to the dwelling of the
sisterhood. They found it even poorer
than they had anticipated. When it
had been first contemplated, Eugene
had handed over a well-filled purse to
M. Bertolot with strict injunction to
procure everything needful; but Eu-
gene's idea of what was needed differ-
ed from that of the superioress. " We
did not take vows of poverty," she
said, " to live with every elegance like
ladies. The spirit of our holy father,
St. Francis, as abo that of our beloved
mother and foundress, St. Clare, re-
quires the utmost plainness and pover-
ty compatible with existence." Eu-
gene's lai^e offering was refused, and
when he on his part refused to replace
it in his pocket, it was distributed
among the sick poor.

Euphrasie received her friends with

756

The Godfrey Family ; or, Questioiu of the Day.

open arms, and conducted them to the
Buperiorcss with love and respect.
Many of the sisterhood had now gath-
ered together, and even postulants
were not wanting. The superioress
greeted the ladies with calm dignity,
and entered with much feeling into
the account given to Euphrasie in her
presence of Sirs. Godfrey's conversion
and happy death. .

** And am I to understand, dear
ladies," said the superioress, " that you
also share these blessed dispositions V*

" Annie is a Catholic,*' answered thrt
duchess, " and a persecuted one. Sir
Philip has shut the (^oors on the mother
of his children because she has cm-
braced Catholicity."

Euphrasie, by a sudden impulse,
rose and knelt by Annie's side, kiss-
ing her hands and battling them with
her tears. " Now, God be praised for
all his mercies !" she said. ** How shall
we welcome you, dear martyr, for his
sake ?"

Annie could only reply by return-
ing Euphrasie's caresses and affection.
She placed her arm round her friend,
and compelled her to sit by her side.

** Will you ask' the reverend mother
to let me stay with you awhile, dear
Euphrasie ?" she said.

" What ! Here ? here in the convent ?
in this poor place ?' replied Euphrasie.
** You who have been cradled in lux-
ury and reared in abundance? You
know not what you ask, dear friend ;
it is impossible."

Annie looked at the superioress;
she read more promise there. " Dear
revertind mother," she said, *'Almighty
God has seen how unfit I am as yet to
tniin my beloved children in the nar-
row path of mortification and of hu-
Diiliation, trodden by our Divine Mas-
ter. He has sent me to learn it of
you. Will you accept me as your
disciple in Jesus Christ ? At leaVt, I
can']>romisc you revei-ence and sub-
mission."

*' Y'ou arc welcome, most welcome*,
my daughter," said 'the superioress,
"aiul may Almighty God, in his own
good lime, restore your children to you,

to be brought up in the faith an
of Christ."

" Thank you, dear mother :
you and the dear sisters will
me by your prayers, doubtless 1
He has but sent me here tc
awhile, that I may be able to tra
rightly. I stand as yet but
threshold of the church ; I ha
ed in and seen her glories, bu
and worldly as I have bee
childhood, 1 scarce know bow-
in her unworldly triumphs."

*'Dcar cousin," said En
" you must not defame yoursel
were ever kind and generou-s i
your humility will surely brin
blessing. We will try to m:
happy here."

" Indeed, yes," said the sup<
" it is a great consolation to i
ceive you. Y'our heart, so I
customed to the incredulity of
needs rest— such rest as is p
by dwelling on the love of Cl
us. After a while it will bee
you a nec<»ssity to recipro«
love, by pouring yourself ot
were in deeJs of charity an
ness for the pure love of 1<
died for you. Once acciisic
converse familiarly with him. ;
no longer regard liiin as divl-l
yourself, but as one same st
you, so that witii St. Paul vi
be able to exclaim, ' / II vo iiiiv
but Christ liveili in me.' Yts. i
daughter, from him you may i
thinj:;3 tor your children as W' !
yourself. Dtuacli yourself fr
world, sevk Christ crucifi*'d. i!
may rcpo<e surely in his love.*'

Adelaide listened, and wc
She looked around at the b:ir
the un carpeted floor, the pl.i
tables, and the common ru*l
'' Js llie rest I f the house liL
she asked of ln?rse!f: "and :i
leave Annie here ?"

Begging the sui>eriore«s tj
her for an instant, she dron
apart, and urged upon her ih.
useless for lier to subject bers'.l
privations as these.

The Godfrey Family; ar^ Questtom of the Day.

757

I home with me, dear Annie,

jTOU."

sister, think not so meanly of

deem that I cannot endure

w weeks or months, priva-

ich these dear hidies suffer

they are nuns, you know."
that does not alter (heir na-
once they were in the world,
1, honored. I would learn of
it has given them power thus
le tlie world beneath their
leave me for a while, my
I find the life too hard for
I come to you.**
promise ?"

believe me, Adelaide.**
jiih this promise Adelsdde
;ed to be content She pre-
wend her way homewards,
•ose for that purpose, the su-
said : " Your grace will have
journey. May I venture to
a book to beguile the tedium
y ?* . Adelaide smilingly as-
nd on getting in her car-
phrasie placed into her hands
I meditations for every day
Absorbed at first in her own
Adelaide heeded the book
; but after a while, to relieve
i began its perusal, and was
lish^ at the interest it excit-
her breast.

CHAPTER XXVI.

) morning of Annie and Ade-
iparture for the convent, Mr;
had ordered breakfast for
1 his library, and had sum-
[ester to attend him, on the
f not feeling well, but in re-
roid a parting scene mth his
Hester, on the other hand,
othing more than they should
hoiit farewell ; she had keen-
.delaide's words beside her
coffin, but in despite of her
uld not effect an mterview
old dispel the ill-feeling that

o/>pressed her. Her father's jealousy
of her holding any private intercourse
with the rest of the family on the one
hand, and the coldness of Adebide on
the other, seemed to present insur-
mountable obstacles. At length she
heard the carriage draw up, and the
voices departing; hastily she quitted
the breakfast table, and rushed into
the hall. The travellers were already
there ; she approached Annie with
tears in her eyes. Annie was too sad
herself to be angry just then, she im-
printed on her sister's* forehead the
silent kiss her gesture pleaded for;
but Adelaide went forward and seated
herself in the carriage, waving her
hand for a general adieu, and Hester
fell back weeping on her brother's
shoulder as the vehicle drove away
from the door.

'* O Eugene ! I had no hand in this ;
tell me at least that you believe mcy"
sobbed the poor girl.

"I do believe you, and so will
Adelaide after a time; take comfort.
Hester."

"I cannot, with them all against
me. Oh ! who could ever dream our
love for each other could melt away to
this?"

"It is not melted away, dear sis-
ter, only obscured; it will one day
return warmer and brighter than
eveY."

" Then you, you will write to me,
you will not cast me off?"

"Never, never will I cast you off!
never cease to love you !"

" Then, Eugene, you will help me
also ; I want to read, to know the cause
of these unhappy divisions."

« And my father ?"

"O Eugene! that is the misery
my father must not know. Eugene^
I love my father ; there can be nothing
wrong in that, he has only me now.
We cannot help that ; but I must be
true to him, I cannot break his heart
He must not know we correspond or
that I read your books, or that I am
thinking on the subjects he hates so
much. He rieed not know it ; I am a
woman now, I have a right to my

768

The Godfrey Family; or^ Queaiont of ike Dag.

freedom. If I conceal my thought, it
ig out of love to him ; you know well
how it would pain him were he to
suspect I read a work that treats on
religion."

*• Our correspondence must be secret,
then r

<^I fear it must; at least till my
father gets over this miserable pre-
judice. Tou can write and send to
mc under cover to Norah, my little
maid. I will send her to you present-
ly for some books, and now good-by,
my father wiH be wanting me. Pray
for us both, Eugene."

Mr. Godfrey was considerably un-
hinged by the change that had taken
phice in his family, and he watched
Hester closely. She had truly said
she was now his lust hope. Tliat
she was dejected at her mother's
death could not surprise him or any
one, but that her sprightlincss had
altogether departed, that her energy
was depressed, her color faded, and
her appetite gone, were sources of
great anxiety. Again he took her to
Yorkshire, to endeavor to reinspire her
with interest in the promotion of the
"Man»h of Intellect.''

Hester did not feci justified in with-
drawing her interest or exertions from
the institutions which she had raised
and fostered ; but it must be confessed
that these institutions were gradually
assuming the character of mere money-
making factories. Mr. Godfn^y, dis-
satisfied with certain losses, had en-
gaged a man of business to overlook
the whole concern, and in addition to a
stipulated sum, this person was to re-
ceive a certain percentage on the prof-
its. This rendered him particularly
sharp-sighted as to doing matters eco-
nomically ; that is, with the fewest num-
ber of hands, at the lowest rate of
wages, and oftentimes employing child-
ren in lieu 'of adults.

"This is altop;ether foreign to our
first idea," said Hester, " auil I do not
approve of it at alL"

" It cannot be helped, my dear ; no
enterprise that will not pay can be
proceeded with in the long run."

^ But these children aha!
close rooms at eight or lei
age, for such long hours ! it
every faculty they possess.^

" If their parents are wil
mit it, I do not see what we
with it.''

'^O father! ignorant pi
sell their children, without k
harm they do ; but this ca
way in which the world is t

*• You were not satisfied
suits of your new plan, wl
make money. I nave p
ter into 3£r. Fisher's bawls
because I know that in h
money is to be made, it wi!
his talent for business is ui

" Money is pot the princ
gression."

*^ Nothing can be done iv
any rate.'*

These dfscussions annoy<
frey the more because he
consistency between the pa
the present practice. Or
hand, Hester was not in pi
the principle she was seckii
acknowledged with regret <
though she by no means g;
search, and still less restc*
with the inffirior motive of
development, all future iu
on the mere basis of mono^

Among Mr. Godfrvv's 1
of the most intimate. b<
most scientific afler the fas]
world's science, was a Mr.
gentleman whose works h
acquired for him a grea
reputation, and who was gr
quiring great influence ove
frey. He was a man of abo
thirty years of age, being s
years older than our Hesie
greatly admired, notwithst:
he found her mind a little
understand. Perhaps he li
better that she puzzled hi
took difierent views from
tain it is that he haunted
whenever he could find an <
Mr. Godfrey seemed partii
pleased to find them togei

Tke Godfrey Family; or, Questiam of the Dety.

759

nterviews with such a leam-
ald dissipate any tendency
especially the Catholic re-
Hester might be fostering in
e of the proclivities of her
of the rest of the family
ction.

atumn, a walk through the

brought the trio together,
er they returned to the

gusty and fitful wind scat*
leir p2^th the tinted leaTOS
ie showers from the trees
hich they were passing.
Is were hurrying through

summoned suddenly to as-
le tempestuous commotion,

many miles distant was the
r of waves was heard beat-
ar-oflf shore ; every sign be-
t a storm was at hand. The

hurried to the house, and
1 they reached it, than ira-
ley went to the window to
te amazement at the scene.
>Yind was uprooting trees,
ouses, and carrying off all
re it. An old bam long
)e pulled down, which was
ig hands to perform the
;nly reeled like a drunken
1 a few moments more fell
id with a great crash. The
) screamed in the hall, ^'the
in for shelter, they must
to death T' The door was
t tlie serving-men might
rescue, but the wind swept
ido through the hall, tiles
ng from the house-top,
jling from the chimneys,
he house was impossible,
stand against such a blast,
arded roof that was being

the carpenters was carried
ffold, and after being for
balanced in the air as if
per kite, fell at length with
h into the lake some quar-
ile distant from the spot
is first uplifted. The scene
3 terrific and sublime, and

screams and sobs of the

girls, who feared to have some father,
brother, or friend buried beneath the
fallen building, Hester could have en-
joyed the spectacle ; but she was occu-
pied in endeavoring to soothe the panic-
stricken tremblers, and for consolation
what could she say ? She could but
stand by and sympathize, and utter
words of hope, meaningless because un-
felt. It was a relief when the storm
abated to find that all the men had been
able to quit the building at the first
creaking of the rafters, and by crawl-
ing on all fours had reached a place
where they lay safely tHl the storm had
passed — all save one, and he was pro-
tected by the manner in which the
beams fell over him, they being pre-
vented from faUing perpendicularly by
some obstacles, and formed a sloping
defensiTe shelter for the young man
who happened to find himself in that
particulai^3omer, from which, when the
storm abated, he was extricated by his
companions, with no other injury suf-
fered than the alarm endured for sev-
eral hours ; and in this alarm he had
many sharera, for few of the neigh-
bours could rest in peace until he was
drawn forth unhart

A feeling of relief pervaded the par^
as with closed shutters, drawn curtains,
and every appartenance of comfort,
they drew round the bright coal fire,
which shed a glowing, cheering warmth
throughout the apartment — while the
rain which had succeeded to this storm
of wind was pattering against the win-
dows, enhancing the comfort within by
a sense of dreariness without.

^ How remorseless is nature I** said
Mr. Spence, as at length the silenoe
which had pervaded the three friends
became aUnost pamful ; << decay, chabge,
transition, pain, with transient gleams
of beauty, as if to render the surround-
ing gloom more painful still, and no es^
cape : how remorseless is nature !"

'^ All things have their bright side,
I believe,'' she said, << even so terrible
a storm as to-day's. It is good to foel
a grand sensation sometimes, it stin
up the very depths of one's being.**

<< How would it have been if those

teo

The Godfrey Family ; or, QuetlCont of the Day.

'}>

men had been crushed to death, or
worso, hopM(»ssly maimed for life ?^

"Tliat did not happen. Sufficient
for thp day is the evil tiiereof."

" But similar events often do happen.
The battle-field, the pestilence, man's
evil passions, or the remorseless sea toss-
ing man's feeble bark in sport against
the rocks, cause many a gnind sensa-
tion that is not good. See in that new-
ly settled swamp the settler's wife sur-
prised nmitl her household drudgeries
with a startling shriek, and, hurrying to
the water's edge, to find a ratth^snake
coiled round her prattler's leg, inflict-
ing tlie painful sting that causes the
inno<'ent child to expire in torture : do
you call that good ?"

" Jt docs not follow that there is no
good because we see it not ! The de-
sign of the creation may involve a
bidden go(xl to be evolved out of what
seems evil."

"And meantime the longer we pur-
sue our reso.ai-clies, the more we be-
come convinced that an all- pervading
inexomblc law governs events by neces-
sary connection ; that there is no re-
sisting the force of this law, no dis-
arming if. All tliat we can do is to
study it, and take what comfort wo can
individually by an intelligent applica-
tion of it to oursflves."

**And our nciuhbor's hai)piness is to
tell for nothing?"

" You will do no good by forcing
any system on men for wiiioh they are
not pre pa n'd," said Mr. S pence. "Ideas
remain inoperative when the civiliza-
tion or intelligence to which it is ad-
dressed is uneciual to its realization ;
practice docs not depend on theories,
but on development, on individual as-
similation of the principles, if I may
be permitted to use this word. For in-
Btan{»e, moral theories are ever the
same. The Hindoo, the Chinaman,
the follower of Zoi-oaster an«l the
transcribers of the precepts of Menu,
declare with the Jew and the Christ-
ian, that the law is to be honest, vir-
tuous, heedful of others' pleasr.re or
gooil, to seek justice, love men»y, rev-
erence age, and submit to all lawful

authority, etc. — '.'a^h prec
ing a willing oh-'dii-nce :
an3 t he f r u i t s t o 1 w f- »un 1 ?

" But do mr»n bi-rw^vc th
to b»^ the rule of rijrht ?*'

" Theoretically thr-v urc
eJ, butpnictii-ally man is
external objects ihrU su
Give society a sys t-.Mn b
vancement, it risos suporir
it one alwve it, it di»?> i
to it. This is obsprvalJ^
Among the h>w«T or.l« r
Catholics there is h'-s of
civilization, wiiii more of tl
ty enjoin el l»y rllLT-ofi,
the lower onh»r of S •otcli
dej«pite the theory of ih'i
Again, the Swrdc- rind ili-
of some of tin* Swi'*-* C.nj
civilized than the Frrnc)
fore it avails tho-n litth* 1)1
centuries agi> ad'»n:e'l ;» cr
the fon*e of habit mii 1 t
of tradition now obli,:.' il
Whoever has travril'l in
tries will sei» howlittif tin
have benefited by ili-ir r-
in Fi*anep you will -■• • an
ligion acconii>a.iii- 1 by l"!
and a creeil «\ill n!' .«.u;» r
fessed by a |>et»i»l«» aririn;.' \
stition is cornpara'iv iy ra

'*Tliat would ra:h.T -
Catholicity to b;» bfttiM- t
tanism," said lli*-t«*r; •• at
eral views and to]i*ra!i! :
proof of ih«* advaTi.cni -nt

Mr. (;olfn'y bi hi. llj
Spence. suddrnly niiu .f.il
prcoeeding* in his fri. n V-
exactly of tlie !«)l"!M!i^r
ha^'tily essayed to c.«vit M

*' Practically," he s lid.
ligious demon-itrari«»n< a
apart fiom their !h<*o'y, a
erned by the ^-harae.cr
al nuMital d«'vehinin«'ni.
(what they an* as>!i:ni I u
er governing de vein 1:11 n;

*•! think that pi*i)iH»>il!
If religion ac.'s at all. i: 1

•?;* n-jrklr'.'t (Mvi'i/ it .>ik l-i P.
pagcf 191-ltO, frou wUicii mhovi- ia <

The Godjreif Family;

: to Us character as a power,
ig tliat with many it is a dead
without any action, yet with
; dors influence, its action must
egitimate result of its doctrine ;
the civiliza'tion resulting from
city is superior, is not that the
r agency ?"

u forget how the guardians of
holic faith have ever persecut-
ice; that proves them intol-

t necessarily. The guardians of
amid a crude, undeveloped peo-
y well be jealous of novel no-
ispersed out of their connexion
1 unthinking, unreflecting popu-
If tiie obect is to raise people
le phase of their present exist-
) a higher pha^e, our late ex-
its have shown that it needs
in disturbing present moral in-
!«. The mass are not philoso-
they will not travel the whole
3f a series to trace the whole
f what you call the necessary
:ion. Were I to begin my ex-
nt again I should take the high-
live then active on the mind,
' to build higher on that. The
suits of science are usually de-
e, and therefore not tit for the
; something must be built up
re we present it to them. As it
e masses seen) only to amuse
Ives by hurling the stones of
ned theory at the world and at
ther, destroying muth, but ad-
l nothing good."
; philosophy must not be control-
kaence must not be impeded in
rard march ; the hopes of ulti-
vilization lie in free investiga-
rhe evil is transient — the good
lent"

t you admit that a system may
ivance of a people 'f
s, and forerunners are martyrs,
ed to the ignorance, to the in-
pi of the age in which they live ;
ire is a sort of necessity for
xistence, the law for which is
ret discovered. Future ages will
ly be more enlightened on this

or,

Questions of the zfey^C^^^ *

head. All that we know is, that there is
a law for all evolutions, a practical
principle — if we could only trace it —
to which every action, every develop-
ment may be referred. Statistical tables
show us that even crime follows me-
thod. In a given number of people
in a given slate of civilization there
will be a certain percentage of mur-
ders, a certain percentage of thefts,
robberies, and the like ; nay, a certain
average number of suicides. You
may verify these facts by comparing
the statistical tables of lai^e cities
such as London and Paris,* lor a de-
finite series of years.

" And through what agency is this
effected ?* asked Hester, in amazement.

" Nay, that I can scarcely answer
save in general terms. The cause of
law, the cause of evolution, the cause
of everything is utterly unknown. The
most we can do is to observe phenom-
ena, to class them, and then note the
sequences which form necessary con-
nection together; in this way we dis-
cover the law, bat beyond tliat science
can affirm nothing. The cause we
can know nothing, and affirm noth-
ing of, save, its bare existence as the
incomprehensible cause of all phenom-
ena. The sgle possible predication is
merely that he, or more properly it,
is."

"Why, surely the cause is God,**
said Hester, who, new as she was to
a personal recognition of God's rights
to her own devotion, had never dream-
ed of doubting that ^ absolute intelli-
gence" ruled " as cause."

" Grod," said Mr. Spence, " is too
indefined a term for science, or rather
there are ideas connected with the
term which we cannot scientifically
apply to the unknowable. We cannot
affirm of this unknowable that he is
either matter or mind; because this
would be to degrade him, by repre-
senting him in terms of our finite and
human conceptions. Matter and mind
are in fact .bat phenomena of which
the unknowable is the unknown cause.

* Sea Backle*8 CiTUluUon in EngUuML YoL 1.
pace IT tt 9$q,

762

2%« Godfrey Fandy ; or. Questions of the Day.

He is of a far higher nalure than mat-
ter or mind, for he is the common cause
of both. Of this nature we can form
no idea whatever. We cannot attrib-
ute to tlie unknowable reason ; since
that would represent him as finite, for
all reasoning is limitation. We can-
not afl^rm of him either justice or
mercy ; because these are words bor-
rowed from the human, and to express
the unknown in such tenns ia anthro-
pomorphism and blasphcmj. Such a
i-cligion is but one grade higher than
the ancient theologies that represent
God witli hands and feet and other
human members.-'

*' Stay," said Hester, " I cannot ad-
mit all your assumptions. That the
cause is the great I Am, of whose
essential being we know nothing, is
doubtless true, as also that iinitude
cannot comprehend infinitude: but
that it is wrong or blasphemous to
speak of him in the language of earth,
I cannot see. Wo know the expression
is inadequate, that it is meta[)iiorioa1,
an ap])lication of the less to signify
the greatf;r, but it is the only voice we
have, and the degree of worship de-
pends on the spirit of reverence which
prompts the utterance, as the fix*e«lom
from idolatry must depend on tlie spirit
of appreciative love and 8ubmis>ioii
with whicliathat worship is offered.

*' But," said Mr. Spence, " all theol-
ogies set out with the great truth, that
the deity is incomprehensible. But
they immediately cx)nti'adict and stul-
tify themselves by proceeding to assign
him attributes. In this way all reli-
gions become suicidal as well as irre-
ligious. The only true religion is to
worship God as the unknown and for-
ever unknowable. True religion and
science agree in this, tliat the cause
of all plienomena is the unknown.
Science, in aflinnijig the cause to bo
material or mental, becomes imscien-
tific, ju-it as religion, by pretending to
reveal his nature or attributes, becomes
irn^ligious."

" Ttuxlon me," said Il'.'ster, « I think
you are b(\ir,;ring i\w question. Bec4iuse
we know notiiing of the interior beiui;

of God, it does not follow that
not discover the r.ilatiousUiy^
he wishes to establish betwi^
self and ourselves, and to tl
festations of these relations
may in all reverence and v
sistency assign attribute?,
himself Grod is the gn>;it I
known and unknowable to u
son, justice, mercy, pi-obably \
no exercise. Their exercisio
in creation ; for all creation i
God, an expression of his pov
every other attribute justly
him. Creation itself is limite*
expression more so yet : bi
not therefore believe in the 1
of the deity. We cannot
inGnity, still less express It ;
idea exists, and our minds ii
deity with it in revervntial
in blasphemy."

" You have given the rau
ology assuming God to be a s
a creative spirit ; and a>>uii
that the creation is a work o
sign. You do not perceit.?
make Grod the author ot ovi
as good, and that you a>s;iui
was crt^ated. !Xow, the ctt
matter would be no gn-utcr
than the eternity of uiind ; a;
not know whether the eaus^r
ter or mind.' It is unknown
also unknowable."

" Why this is* sheer Ailioii
the startled Ilcsior.

'• Not sob! This doririne i
Atheism nor Theism. It ia
the highest and hist tbrnuila,
of science and reli;rion, ccasin
resent the unknowable in i
ceptions of human thou-zht. ;
leavinnf free scope for wor-h;
(worship) is not assort i«^:i.
mility and transcendeal woii-l

'* Nay/* ?aid Ilesti i\ ■• n 1; ji
as I cjui make it o:it, co:i.-i-»
knowledging the rc!aiion?hi]
God has esc^iblish- d : firsi.
himself and man, and soeondiy
man and man. IieH;:lo;i, ii'
manilcstiition or revtU:io;i i
God's csseutiid nature. }ei o

The Godfrey IkunUy ; or, Qaeiticm of the Day,

768

in man's regard. The discrepancies
between our conceptions of what is
evil and evil itself may explain your
difficnlty about God being the author
d[ eviL It may be that mere change,
mere transition, is not evil, even when
accompanied by some pain. I read
yesterday that the only real evil was,
a voluntary act on the part of a ration-
al creature, performed contrary to the
known will of Grod."

" That is so evidently a theological
mbtkty," said Mr. Spcnce, ^science
deigns it no reply."

** And yet," said Hester, "your last
and highest formula, which refuses to
r^>resent the unknowable in any con-
ception of human thought, bows down
in worship and transcendent wonder
to the 'cause' which makes murder,
Boidde, and every specias. of human
wickedness result from * A Law' !

^ Because we believe that ultimately
that law will evolve good. It appears
a fiust now thoroughly established, that
an the organisms we are acquainted
with, have been evolved by a gradual
pfTOoess rather than produced by a
■eriea of special creations, as has
been so lon^ the theory. And the
ercdntion tends' upward; that is, to
prodnoe new and more complicated
oiganisms as time speeds on. This
must in . the end evolve higher
good.-

^ Do yon inean that the lesser is
ever producing the greater ; and that
in the aggregation of insentient matter
life is evolv^ ?"

" Does not the infant grow into the
man by the aggregation of insentient
matter assimikted into his being in
the shape of food?"

** Yes, but life was there already ;
chancter and power, expansion and
development it receives, but no new
fhnction."

*' That is not so certain ; or rather
it ia^ certain that evolution constantly
manifests changes, which can only be
acooanted for on the ground of a great
universal law, a law ever producing
diversity of phenomena in unity of
operatioD.**

'^ But I do not see that it explains
anything of the ultimate cause."

" Have I not already said that
the cause is unknown and unknow«
able?"

CHAPTER XXTI.
HODEBN rniLOSOPnY.— TUB SOUL

wrruouT god.

Etbrxitt and vpace ! Remorseless law 1

Without a voice or tone of love to man,
without a sign to soften into nwe

The terrors of necessity's dark plan.
Oh ! what a wall of dark despair .

Kent the unblest, nnhallowed nir,
As through the spheres the last dark utterance

ran —
There is no God ! no deity for man I
The glowing thoughts that tlirill iiiiurs ftume, *
And bid him glorious kindred claim
With all of brilliancy divine
That through the dauling circles shine ;
The thoughts unspeakable that swell

The heaving breast to ec; tasy,
And cast their sweet and mystic spell

Until, attuned to harmony,
The wlng6d soul is borne throughout all space
To read the symbols of celestial grace ;
Tracing the wondrous lore from sky to sky.
Inflamed by consciousness of Duity
Though veiled, yet present stSlI, and still
*' Educing good firom seeming ill " —
That thought is quenched in deepest night I
Vanished each ray of holy light 1
The winged soul, all tempesfc^osfc.

Unshed in vain throughout all space ;
Amid dark waves of horror lost

No sign appears, her course to trace
In speechless agony, alone,

Finding rest — never !
The wearied spirit hurries on

Wandering forever 1
All, all is lost 1 a dark despair
Fills up the void, the Uinted air.
A Upas tree with poisoning shade
Monopolises every glade ;
And shadows flit and utter : " Woe 1
Bemorscless natufe rtiles below."

Throughout all space— no rest-
No r«y
By which the human heftrt is blest ;

No day
Breaks th* interminable gloom

Around —
A fpul, dark, loAthsome tomb t
A burial ground 1
Without a star
To light th* abyss !
Stern, elemental war t
No bliss !

The evolution of a vast decay :

Its beauty transient, as the fleeting ray

That gilds the clouds on fitful April's day.

Kternlty I Immensity 1

All unillumlned lie.

No trace of high design

Doth through their glimpses shine :

Destruction and decay

Reiwated day by day-
Music forgets to Joy Uie earth,
Beauty to give the flowerets birth.
Banished all providence, baniMhed for ever—
What from the fhlntlog heart eorrow ab

■ever 7

764

The Godfrey Family; or Questions of the Day,

One chnrnMhnu'p \* the all-leemlnn earth ;
That Fcilil V.ipiip rUliijj »lckly bright
To wUu-h f«ml rf.lk'iiiK'SS Ij« jjivinjf birth.
Is now man's W'( (lit urouiul uml utter, " Woe !
Remonsvleits n:itu.-c rules Alone bvloir T*

Such wcro our heroine's rcflcfctions.

Poor Hester ! With no settled prin-
ciple, with no defined relij^ion, it was
little wonder that the gloomy specula-
lions of a conceited science shouUl
overpower her iina;;ination, and that
she should become melancholy and
dispirilfid. Indeed, it became evi-
dent tliat the false philosophies, the
exposition of which she was con-
stantly called upon to hear, and
from which her heart recoiled, cvc-n
when she could find no reply to its
specious reasoninpfs, were preying on
her health, nnd the gentleman who
had acted as medical attendant to
Mrs. Godfrey, now warned her father
that Hester must be looked to, unless
he would sec her also fall into de-
spondency.

Not that Hester believed in a theory
which contradiclol her instincts, anni-
hilated for licr the use of a faciihy.
No ; but ill'.' very enunciation of such
dogmas opjnvssrd her, seemed to
spre.'ul a ^nal-e for her, raiz^ed doubts
of disturbance, at the very moment she
was seeking to gain from works her
brother ha I lent lierthe peace of mind
she 80 much nced«\l. In spite of her-
self her mind recurred to the theory
which torment fd Iht, and wliich she
saw was favored by her father. *• And
yet," mused slie in sadness, •• can high
ideas si) iiiji I'voin the evolutions of mat-
ter? Is matter creative ? This pant-
ing after justice tliat I feel, the love
of order, iM^anty, monil harmony, for
which so willingly I'd give my ease, my
leisure, my exertions, nay, to forwani
the permanency of whicii I should es-
teem my life well bestowtnl, does that
proc 'cd i'lom blind n<»oessity, irom evo-
lution ofoi-,:.inii' lile, itself unconscious
of the boon conforri'd ? Impossible !
Idea is as real as is the brain : and
there were mighty minds in days of
old, who left cxamphis mcQ have not

yet equalled. He who die-l upor
cross, and left twelve laboring u
tered men to propagate hi* most u
fish lore, was he evolved from mai
slow progression ? And the men
roused the souls and waked the
h?cts of poverty, who prea«:he'l ihc
pel to those lowly ones who live
of toil and weariness, who ki
thoughts tKat raised them high t
the tyranfs might to claim their
ship as the sons of Gorl, inhericc
fi*ecdom, justice^ truth, which n;
save their own act can rob the
were they evolved fro: a ro'.teni
And if they were, why sini^e that
two thous;ind years ago, have
no nobler souls than these app€
who could show liner instinrrs, h
views? Why, amid the luxu;
Roman proud patrician life, did
s|)ring up so suddenly a class who
quered by defeat, aiid laid founda
among the lowly of the earth cer
ed by their blood, that to tirs day
claim their origin to be some: hi nj
feivnt from the world's natural i
ences — ^a class whose leaders so
renunciation rather than gnitifin
of tlie senses ; who wore* the d
themselves to fn*e the slave, t
death to solace tli«? pl;igii—-iilc
and abjured riches to fe- «i tlie liui
willi their ston.»s ? Why, amoiii
class alone of all the earth's vai
classes, is woman hononMl. :ind
teclt*d alike in her virginity, her m
nity, and her widowhoo.l ? Wiiy,
alone, arc we taught pa«*:on is to
ject itself to the great ideaof go.)d,
why hero alone is found that pnw
given to act on the idea ? — :liat I
dreds and thousands borne above
earth by that idea, have livel a
such as the poets deem In-l^ng
angels only, justice nnd triiih I
path iiluminii^g, and li>vo divine
sjnred by heaven (fio deemed by i
at least) infusing love of all huma
to bear them nobly through i he wo
n-buffs and con!i-a«Jlctio:i<, toil
want ? Tiiat so empowered, by n<
tcrior means, tijcy w.alk 8Uiieri(
earthly types, to cart lily influence, i

The Godfrey Family: or, Questians of Ae Day.

765

OS of God, though meanly dad ;
sorrow only, that amidst this
L good does not reign supreme,
passion's sway so ofl usurps that
r to quell high thoughts and sink
brethren's souls to misery. No !
it cannot be that all those gbrious
jf heroism, which bore witness to
;her existence than that lived by
majority of men, an - existence
i realized that truth and love
. bringdown heaven to dwell upon
jarth, amid all untoward exterior
ances, that a power exists inde-
ently of exterior surroundings, a
incss independently of material-
— it cannot be that those acts were
ed from the polluted state of so-
in which they were performed,
rhich they tended to amend, and
ide into a new channeL I do be-
in justice, truth, and love, as mo-
powers, irrespectively of selfish
ication to myself. I do believe
state of bemgin which they reign ;
18 I am not a creator, I must be-
in a higher ideal of this justice,
, and love, than the one in my own
, as also that from that higher ideal
>wn is derived, for the greater
)t derive from the less : nor can a
f formed organism, whether evolv-
created, originate."
lus mused Hester as she pondered
the lives of the saints which Eu-
had sent her, and as she read
x)ok of books — the gospel. Yet
[arcd not confess even to herself
Dprcssion she received. Her fa-
that source of dread was ever in
lought.

iantime that father was uneasy
5 evident disturbance in Hester's
, Once or twice he had observed
it in her room at late hours of
light, and yielding to his uneasi-
he had sofVly turned the handle
opened the door ; books were on
ible, but the light was very low,
lester ! could he believe his eyes ?
IT was on her knees, so absorbed
ither to perceive his entrance nor
He closed the door as silently as
yd opened it, and turned to think.

What did this mean ? Verily, wonders
were heaped upon him ! Wliat should
he do? That veiy day Mr. Spence
had proposed for Hester's hand, be-
cause of her supposed freedom from su-
perstition. What was to be done ?

CHAPTER XXVn.-
A CHANGE OF SCENE. THE SISTERS.

Adelaide was wondrously desolate
on her return home. Her noble man-
sion, replete with elegance, wliat wag
it worth to her now ? The famed
Pantheon, for which a splendid gal-
lery had been built, she never entered.
The thought of it seemed to sicken
her. Company wearied her, solitude
distracted her. Miss Fai!'fi3ld, the
daughter of a decayed noble, family,
who acted a? humble companion to lier
grace, was quite at a loss. What could
be the matter with the lady 1 Tlic poor
humble lady companion did her best,
her efforts were altopjether unheeded.
The duchess remained for the most
part plunged in a profound reverie.

Adelaide was reviewing the past;
comparing characters ; examining prin-
ciples. She had not loved the duke,
but none the less his death had proved
a loss to her. Rich as she was, pow-
erful as she was, she was neither so
rich nor so powerful as she had been
while he lived. But there was a bit-
terer feeling far than this. It was, that
she had never been an object of love
to him, or to any one She had cov-
eted honor, power, weatlh. She had
these ; but there were times when she
would have given them all for the con-
sciousness of having been loved as El-
len had been. She was jealous of the
affections now laid in the grave, and
would ask herself whether, had she
been the one whom the duke had seen
first, had they met ere his affections
were engrossed, would he have loved
her as he had loved the injured one?
" I had youth, beauty, and inlellect,"
thought she ; '* why should he not have
loved me as he did that orphan girl ?„

766

The Godfi^ey Family; or. Questions of the Day.

Strange that these thoughts should
come upon her now ; but only no^v had
she compelled hei-self to acknowledge
the great depth of feeling as well as the
power of intellett which the duke had
possessed.

Until she had read the mystery of
the " Passion " in Avrillon, she had
not understood tlie profound hcavings
of a contrite hcjirt, which she hiid
"mocked at" when he lay dying.
Her Qy^s wore beginning to open
DOw; the world to weiir a new as-
pect, although as yet a cloudy mist
hovered over her higher visions ; for
she understood not the yearning of her
own heart.

She was in this soDened mood when
flhe received a letter from her father.
Six months had elapsed since her
mother's death, and ^fr. Godfrey com-
plained, that he could not yet rouse
Hester to become anything like her
usual self. He had taken her to York-
shire, bat she no Jongor cared to in-
terest herself in "progression;" she
had been disgusted at some scenes
of immorality, an<l had voted that
intellectual improvement without the
observance of the moral law was a
failure. " In fact," said Mr. Godfrey,
"she is absorbed in discovering a
'new principle,' and more tlian oiiee
I have found her on her knees, balli;*d
in tears. "What can (his mean ? Has
she also been tampered witli ? I am
uneasy: I am coming next week to
pay you a visit, and shall bring her
with me. Ilel]) mo to rouse her from
ber melancholy:, and above all to ban-
ish fanaticism, if it is that disease
wlijch has taken hold of her."

Adelaide was not altogether.recon-
dled to Hester, in spite of £ugcni:*s
explanation ; but tlie moment that she
realized from tliis letter that a re-
straint was likely to be put upon her
sister^s freedom of thought, the im-
ages of her mother and Annie rose
before her, and she determined to use
such influence as she eould to prevent
" persecution." i " It is but a mistaken
method after all," i)ondered she, " per-
secution can only tend to engender ob-

stinacy, and rouse the pride of oai

tures. If Hester lias any teudcni

Catholicity, it can only be coml

by reason, by showing its absui

My father will have to bring

his learned friends, and we will

the argument-4 of both sides pi

propounded. It will be an exeitei

if nothing else. What was it

disgusted Hester with her ' mar

intellect * scheme \ She is not t

minded natuniUy ; there is some

fermenting in her mind which

be worked out I am curious a

the termination ; and if Hester n

a friend of me, she shall have

dom to thinks and freedom too t

according to her conscience. 1

shall be no more pcrsecunon ix

family."

Ah ! Adelaide, you have lear
lesson then from sorrow ; it was
thus the proud younjr duehess n%
ed when at the zenith of her fiowi

Adelaide received ber vi-ilor
kindly, and soon made Hester
at home, though there was a
dateness, almost a mdaneholy. n
her, quite foreign to her provioui
port men t« Mr. GcKlfiry fitk
eonceniing her in a manner quile
usual with him, and seemed !•> mal
his principal occupation to pruviJ*;
with interest and amusenieni.

One morning, to the siirjirl^o ol
sisters, as they were si i ling tog»
Mr. Goilfrey entered, aeco:n{ia
by the rector and his lady. Adf!
had certainly done the indispiii?
befoiv, in retviving and retunni
formal call wiih thts^* parties, but !
ing like intimacy had <'xi-ttMl.
Liido was so randy at eluireli.
the reverend doctor and lady dlt
feel encouraged to push iliem.M
into her society. However. Mr. <
frey now insinuated thai his youi
daughter had taken a ndijl^ms
and that he hojMMl from tlie do^
reputation for learning thai he w
l)e able to give that turn a i\\i\ii d
tion, since unfortunately some dev
ments in his family in n-Ve^ious
ters hacl not been satisfactory.

Tke Godfrey Family; or, QuesHam of ike Jkiy.

767

, Lowell had looked somewhat
ce on hearing this, as Mr. God«
latitadinarian opinions and Eu-
i Catholicity were both pretty
known, and had immediately en-
1 if Hester were a Catholic also,
jceiving a decided negative he
led, though with some hesitation
inner. Controversy was riot to
cverend gentleman's taste, and
lat his wife offered to accompany
md do her share of the talking,
luld probably have backed out ;
le lady possessing at once more
stness of character and more
ence in her power of suasion
her husband, was antious not
se this opportunity of setting
the value of Protestantism, and
^reserving Miss. Hester Grodfrey
bllowing the pernicious examples
^ Eugene and Lady Conway,
th. these dispositions Dr. and
Lowell were ushered into the
ice of the duchess and her sis-
>t altogether at ease at finding
elves in such aristocmtic society,
ide received them with her usual
iignity, and turned the conversa-
• flowers, paintings, sculpture, lit-
■e, everything, in fact, save the
which they came to discuss. At
I, turning to Mr. Godfrey, she
if he had introduced Dr. Lowell

Pantheon.

b, indeed," said Mr. Godfrey,
ing, " the doctor is more anxious
another subject just now ; he is
us of restoring his church, which
Jlen out of repair."
ideed," siud Adelaide, "then I
have the pleasure of assisting

and she placed a well-filled
before the doctor,
'our grace is veiy good,** said
everend gentleman. But Ade-
had risen to seek a volume of
vings on church architecture,

she placed in the lady's hand,
I her, as she presented it, that
resumed it would interest her,
night give her a hint or two
3 style of embellishment suit-

The doctor now took courage. ^'I
am glad to see your grace so much
interested in our church," he said.
"I feared — '* but here he stopped.
Adelaide wailed, perhaps a little ma-
lidously, for the conclusion of the sen-
tence, but it came not.

"May I ask what you fear. Dr.
Lowell P' she said.

.But as the answer did not seem
quite ready, the lady of the reverend
gentleman took up the word. " Your
grace will pardon us," she said, * but
as we have so seldom the pleasure of
seeing -you at church, the doctor fear-
ed that its reparation would not inter-
est you so much as your kind acts
now prove that it does."

Adelaide bowed, but replied simply
by turning to an engraving. " I think
it was, in this style our church was
originally built," she said; ''do you
propose to restore it in any way simi-
lar to the primitive idea ?"

" I think not," said the doctor, " we
only intend thoroughly to repair and
cleanse it, unless, indeed, your grace
desires vour own pow altered."

" Oh kl will leave that matter to Miss
Fairfield, she goes to church every Sun-
day, I believe, and I wish she should
be made as comfortable as possible.
If you will be kind enough to consult
with her in this matter, I will agree
to any arrangement she may make."
And the duchess rang the bell, to re-
quest the attendance of the lady named.

** But," said the doctor, unwilling to
lose the opportunity that seemed now
to open, "I cannot believe that one
so kind, so considerate, can be indiffer-
ent to matters of religion."

By this time Adelaide was amused,
so she answered with a quiet smile :
" It does not follow tliat one is indif-
ferent to religion, because one does
not consult the statute-book to find it.
Great as is my reverence for English
kings, queens, parliaments, and prime-
ministers, it is not to .them I should go
to learn religion."

The rector stared; his wife was
equally confounded. The latter spoke*
first. ''It is to church we were in-

768

The Godfrey FamVy; or, Questions of the Day,

viting your grace,* to hear the word
of God."

. " The word of tlic preaclicr you
mean, expounding what is termed iho
word of God, jiCi.ordiiig to act of Par-
liament, and varying according as
Henry VIII., Kdward VI., Eliza-
beth, James, AVilliam, Anne, or the
Greorges have dictated. You must
excuse me, Dr. Lowell, I am a loyal
subject, and as such dulyupliold church
and state, and you will ever find me
willing to assist yuiir wishes; but to
take my religion by act of parliament
borne to my heart, to regulate my
private motives, and unite my being
to God, is quite another affair. Ah !
in gowl time, liere comes Miss Fair-
eld. My dear Lucy," continued
the duchess, " Dr. Lowi-ll wishes the
advantage of ycur good taste in re-
arranging his church : I give you carte
lianclie to act in my nam<* on the sub-
ject. I m u s t al sii Iv-j y ou r kind offices
in entertaining Li'.n ;;nd his lady this
morning. Thvy \% ill like to visit the
hot-houses, tlu or^S'^rvaiories, the gar-
dens, perhaps. r.Is."* the |>icture gallery
aud the hall of s- ulpiniv. Dr.»Lowel!,
Mrs. Lowell. 1 hope at my return from
my drive I shall still find you here ;
you will favor me wilh your company
to dinner."

Adelaide swept from the room like
a queen who had issueil commands
none dared to gainsay, carrying off
Hester wilh her.

Mr. Godl'rey accompanied the rector
and his lady on their tour through the
house, but neiiln.'r he m»r any one of the
parties made tlie slightest allusion to
Adrlaide's remarks respecting the
state relgion ; nor was the subject
ever broached by ihem in her pres-
ence again. The diinier pa-^sed off
pleasantly enough, and in the evening
the carriage of the ilu chess conveyed
the maiTied i>air to tlieir homes, they
feeling the m<( Ives honored by the
gracious reception wliidi on the
whole they lia 1 expciienced.

Mr. Go UVey could not but perceive
from tliis attempt that it would be use-
less for him to attempt giving any di-

rection to a relijrious movement, s^
such be the subject that ocininie
daughter's mind ; though in Irut
was habitually so silent now, i
difficult for him to discover whi
interest her. Suddenly he took
his head he would like to go tc
don, and he asked Adelaide
would not oi>en her town hou=
go too.

" Certainly, if you wish it, 1
It might amuse Hester aW^». for
Hester has never gone ihroui
campaign of a London sea*:©:!.''

But on their arrival in town \
did not seem in any way ea;
launch forth into the great worM (
ion; its frivolities disgusted h»T
of the fashions shocked her, p.in
ly the ball dres:^s ot" st^nie of lier
compoei-s. »She eouM notreconc
native modesty lo du the likt
was soon voted a prulc by i)
clusives of btm ton. H«.».vev
she made no «*ff.irt to sliint
had " no success" in aMi-aeiing i
tentions of the ironllem'.n. ^ho wn
forgiven and most times ovitIoo!

But this latter tact she dM noi
perceive ; she wa-* living \\ii!»:ii Ii
for the mo>t part just u-nw auJ
ing for a principle wlu".i .-IiO I
glance outside;. It was no: jh'
at Mayfair, among tin- s.i:i.-
daughters of dis<ip:iti»>n, t!ia:
might expect to lind ir. Tiic
thing that was remarkable aj.> i
was her pro[)en?ity to lake .i wa
f..irc breakfast : this in L ):i'l m
unusual, and but that iIil- di:
imperiously forbade Iht li«ui^'h
comment on the subject, and jo:iI
contrived to eoncal the nuiiicr
Mr. GodlVey, llin^atenin;r di-:u!*
any one who spokr* lo him aUia
would have bem a nevi i-endliig
of discussion. Ileutrr was aceonij
hi these ualk> by her liiile maid, >
but Nonih cttuld !ievt?r b? b"ou;
tell where they hai! b.en. •'»Suiv
same times this way and sonu
that, and how ^ho;ll•l slie kmM
nanus of all th«>se fim' London s:n

Ml". Godlroy was not oiWn i

The Godfrey Family; otj Questioni of Ae Day.

760

ni, 80 did not perceive that
been absent. One day, how-
len Hester came in later than
.delaide met her in the hall,
r bonnet and cloak from her,
spered that Mr. Grodfrey was
in the breakfast-room,
r entered, but she found Mr.
so busy unfolding the ncws-
at he did not perceive her en-
She passed behind him ere
aware, and impressed a kiss
forehead; it was her usual
's greeting.
Hester, so you're up at last

I letter on your account"
itter for me ?"

yet one that you must an-
he great philosopher of the
mitten with the charms of the
al ; he asked me ere we led
re if her heart was free."

what did you answer him T*

I I did not know, but would en-
lis letter is a sort of reproach-
•nstrance for not having fulfill-
romise."

r smiled, and Adelaide en-
fho the gentleman was.
lan," said Hester, " who thinks
\ evolved into human beings
nns or bats or lower creatures
ly-the-by, father, he never told
so many lower creatures re-
evolved."

piece of mischief, be serious ;
5wer shall I give him ? '
1 1 don't like his pedigree : I
ing higher than worms for my
jrs."
seriously, Hester — "

seriously, father, he says the
T of the ancestry often reap-
I the posterity, even after the
f many generations ; and as

have had a tiger, a hyena,
a boa-constrictor in his genea-
ree, I do not feel well inclined
myself to his Jieeping."
hat the' new philosophy ?*' said
e 5 ** the vicious propensities of
r of the race are then account-
hey are but beasts of prey in
dothea.".

toIn it. 49

" And yourselves, ladies ?" said Mr.
Grodfrey.

" Oh !" said Adelaide, hastily, " please
do not put us into the same category,
Hester and I are well content with the
old story. We are daughters of men
and women, created ui the good old
style; reigning over the brutes by
special privilege, and claiming no sort
of kindred with them whatever."

" And Mr. Spence, Hester — "

^ Mr. Spence, father, must seek a
mate among his kindred, I am of an-
other order of beings."

** Is that your final answer ?"

«Itis."

" You will revoke it, Hester ; I will
tell him to come and plead for him-
self."

<' It will be useless ; I shall tell him
as I tell you, that I do not like his
pedigree."

" is that your only objection ?"

^ It is sufficient for a lady to give
one objection, I think, especially when
that one is insuperable."

Mr. Godfrey seemed disappointed, '
but he nmde no reply : the entrance
of Miss Fairfield to pour out the cof-
fee summoned tiie party to the break-
fast table.

Mr. Godfrey took up the newspaper,
and sipped his cofiee in silence ; it was
his habit to read in company when
annoyed. Suddenly, however, he laid
the paper down. ."De Villeneuve
dead," he said, " my first, my earliest
friend!" He rose and went to the
window, but shortly afterward he left
the room, evidently overpowered with
the sudden news. Adelaide took
up the paper. **It is. the father, the
old marquis, and his eldest son,

drowned on Lake in a sudden

squall of wind. Why, Hester, our old
acquaintance now succeeds to the
property and title."
. " Was not the elder brother mar-
ried?" -

'• The paper says not ; or at least it
says he was a widower and childless,
and that the estates now devolve on
the second, the youngest son, the one
who was in England hist year." •

770

TAe Godfrey Family; or^

" Yes, and it says that he was about
to start for England again when this
event detained him, and that he is ex-
pected shortly ; why, it is three months
ago since the old marquis diecL"

" It's strange the news did not reach
as before, but what business can our
BI. de Villeneuve have, in England
now V

*' There is some talk of his coming
over to take the * Poor Clares ' back
with him. lie was Euphrasic's guar-
dian, and I know he wished to get
her and the community established in
America. It was that wish that took
him back, to see what arrangements
could be effected."
" But will they gor^
" Nay, that I know nothing about ;
I sup|)ose he talked with them on the
matter ere he made his plans "

By thi* time the breakfast table was
cleared, and the sisters were alone to-
gether, and Adelaide suddenly tunietl
the conversation into anotiier channel.
" Hester," she said, " you must make
me your friend; you know that you
aro pursuing a path of difficulty. You
an.' my father's idol, have you tliouglit
what it will be* to break his heart?''

" O Adelaide ! forbear ; I have
thought of that, and the thonglit is
nearly killing me, but I must on in
spit<* of mys^lf."
"= It is tnie, then ?"
" What is true ?''
• '* That you go to mass every morn-
ing, and wei'p yourself to sleep every
nighty my poor, dear sister V*
" Mow did you discover this ?'*
" Your attendant showed your pil-
low to Lucy Fairfield, it was no longer
fit to use ; and Lucy followed you more
than once, and saw you enter tiic Ba-
varian Ambassador's chapel in War-
v/ick street.'*

" But she did not tell my father ?"
"No, I have threatened with dis-
missal any one who makes a remark
on the subject ; meantime tell me, are
you a Catholic ?'

*'No! but I must see the end of
thi<. Adelaide, out of Christianity
theix' is no 'power ;' and * power' it is

On the Cure of Bartimeus,

111

what is the first step to take in the
investigation of truth ?"

" I am inclined to think the process
must be a moral one, as well as an
intellectual one. I heard a preacher
say lately : ' Souls who would come to
Christ, must fiirst be gathered to the
Baptist!'"

Adelaide hid her face in her hands.
"There is a deep meaning in that,"
she said. ''Hester, I too have my
secret. Do you remember the Catho-
lic priest whom I ordered to quit the
lioase as soon as the duke was dead ?
His visage haunts me, he looked up
Irom his prayers at my words, and his
fiice seemed so full of pity, pity for
me, that I half relented ; but matters
had gone too far. Well, I wrote to
Eugene lately to inquire about him,

and Eugene says he is at II on a

mimion among the poor Irish laborers,
and that young Henry, the duke's son,
IB with him. The mother too, the
EUen of thte duke's romance, lives in
Ibe neighborhood. I have an intense
desire to pay the place a visit; had
yon not come, I should have gone
■kne ; now will you go with me ?"

" Willingly ; you arc, then, in com-
munioiition with Eugene ?"

" Slightly ; I dare not tdl liini all
that is in my thoughts, lest I should
raise false hopes. I have not faith, but
I feel it would be a great gift.*'

*'So great that it would be worth
any sacrifice ; but Catholics say it is a
supernatural gift^ and that it must come
from God."

" And Eugene insists that the pres-
ence of sin blinds the soul, by ob-
scuring the spiritual faculty, thus hin-
dering the reception of faith."

" If so," said Hester, " wc must do
what we can to get clear of sin, even
at the price of confession."

" It is therefor I intend to see the
abbe, to make reparation. I wUI not
voluntarily put an obstacle to the
reception of God's gifts. If grace
comes, it shall find me ready to re-
ceive it."

Hester looked at Adelaide in sur-
prise. The haughty duchess had dis-
appeared; another spirit so gentle
looked from those eyes, that Hester
could only throw herself into her sis-
ter's arms and weep.

TO BE CC'NTINUEO.

ORIOrKAL.

ON THE CURE OF BARTIMEUS. •

"iBlfaiwQi, the blind man, sat by the wayside begging. And they say to him : Be of better comfort : arise,
■•ttOelh thee.*^

Out of the windows of my mind —
From my heart's idly open door,
My gaze tbe wide world wanders o'er,

And yet, alas ! how blind, how blind !

My sight of things divine how dim !

Though there be not a single day

But Jesus passcth by the way;
All else I see, but blind to him.

Though rich, I seek the beggar's mite —

His beauty only do I prize ;

And all is darkness to my eyes
Whilst he is hidden from my sight.

I hear a voice within my soul —

'* Arise, of better comfort be,

And come: the Master calleth thee—
Thy faith shall also make thee whole.'*

772

Origtn at Cutar.a.

From the Dublin Rerieir.

ORIGEN AT C^SAREA.

Origenifl Llbrl coutra Cebum (Inter Opera omnia). Ed. Migne, 1 ?3T.

In conclading our survey of the
character and work of Origen, it will
be useful to recall the leading dates in
the chronology of his life to the date of
his exodus from Alexandria. Bom in or
about 18G, he became the head of the
Catechetical school at the age of eiglit-
een. About 211 he visitetl Rome.
Fn)m that year till 231, he labored at
Alexandria, with no other interruptions
•than short journeys into Arabia, to
Ctesarea, and into Greece. In 231
he left Alexandria never to return,
and thenceforward the chief place of
liis residence was Ca?sarea of Pales-
tine. In the fourth or fifth year of his
sojourn there (235),Maximin's i)orse-
cution compelled him to flee to Caesa-
rea of Cappadocia. Returning to the
other (V^sarca in 238, he remained
thiTC for about eleven years, that is,
until the commencement of the Decian
persecution. During these years, how-
ever, he made another jouniey into
Greece, and two more into Arabia.
After the cessation of the persecution
he lived a short time in Jerusalem, and
thence removed to Tyre, where he died
in '2f)S, or 254, in the sixty-ninth year
of his age. The chief divisions of his
life afUT attaining manhood are there-
fore the following :

1. Tlif tiroiity years (211—231) of his
AlcxaiKJi-ian ti'acliiii^.

2. The twenty \ears (2o 1—251) of his life
at Ca'sari'a.

3. The tliroo or four year? from tlio cihI of
the Decian persecution (251) till his death
(254.)

In our present essay we shall be
concerned chiefly with* the second of
these periods. It was the time of Ori-
gen\s most active and dignifiinl hibor.
He was now not so i&uch the teacher

of disciples as the teacher of tea(
and tlie doctor of the whole East,
church was, on the whole, at p
her numbers were increasing, he
ganization dev^oping, and her
trines becoming daily more and i
a subject of inquiry to intellects, fr
ly and hostile. We have Ix-furc t
notice (Dublin Review, April 1
p. 401) how Ca?sarea wa«« an in
tant centre, political, literary, ant
ligious; and here Origen spent
twenty years of which wo now sp
in intercourse with sui'h lii>]iop.? g
Alexander, S. Theoctistns, and Fi
lian, in training such pupils as Gi
ry Thaumaturgus, in pn 'aching i
homilies as those on Isaiah. F-zcc
and the CanticU's, in wrifin;: i
apologies as the Contra (V]?uin.
in carrying through such an eiitery
as the Ilexapla. It is to this |m'
that we must refer the cmphniio I
mony of S. Vincent of L^'rin-;. -1
impossible," says he, "to t*rll 1
Origen was loved, esteemed, and
mired by every one. All that m
any profession of pirty ha>tont'(i
him from the ends of the world. Tli
was no Giristian who did noi nsf
him as a prophet, no j»hih>so]»her «
did not honor liim as a ma^ttT.** 1
word piety (evatt^nu) is worth nn
ing, because something ninch m
wide and bnmd w.is meant hy it tl
than now ; indeed, the original wi
would be better translated rclisioTi
religiousness. The term. pr«>plirt.
also worthy of being rerajtrkiil;
prophet means one who is at one
teacher of the most exalted clas< J
an ascetic who has perfectly tnimi
this world und<T his feet. Finn
the philosophers looked lo him oi tl

Origen ai OcBicarea.

778

hough he professed to teach
sophy but Christianity, and
le Hebrew scriptures instead
ind Aristotle when men came
ith difficulties about the soul,
, and the creator.

present article, therefore, we
concerned with his Csesareali

as it is impossible to com-
hin moderate limits all that

said of the literary produc-
this exceedingly rich period
ibors, we shaJl confine our-
iefly to the consideration of

work Contra Celsum. First,

let us take a glance at the
f the twenty years, for they
Old of events which give us a
the man.

lis principal charge at Csesa-
to preach the Word of Grod
3ple, perhaps the largest part
ant writings has come to con-
e Iiomilies that he delivered
ischarge of this honorable
t was the bishop himself

a rule, preached in the
ad no priest was substituted
iming and piety were not be-

question. We have before
he strong words in which

has handed down the opin-
rigen held by S. Theoctistus,
' Csesarea. On the Sunday,

as we learn from himself^
lis, and sometimes, it would
Fridays or other weekVlays,
brth from among the clergy
le weight of his bishop's man-
>f his own character, to inter-
comment on the Holy Scrip-
: would be interesting to be
ctare to ourselves that church
iSL in which the great light of
spoke, Sunday after Sunday,
ingled Greek and barbarian
i of the capital of Palestine.

probably be a building de-
id founded for the purpose,
annot have been grand or
s, or in any way resembling
I temple, for Origen himself
lat the Christians had no
y What it was inside we

can better guess. We know from
Origen's own hints that there existed
ix^it the usual distinctions of position
for the various ranks of faithful and
of clergy that are so well kpown from
writers of a century later. We may
therefore conclude that the chancel
or altar part was clearly separat-
ed from the jest of the interior,
and perhaps elevated above it ; that
the altar itself stood at some dis-
tance from the eastern wall, and that
round the apsis behind it ran the /3^fia,
or presbyters' benclu Here, in the
centre, stood the chair of the bishop,
and here he sat during the sacred lit-
urgy in the midst of his priests, all in
a semicircle of lofty seats. The dea-
cons and inferior clergy occupied the
rest of the sanctuary, which was sep-
arated by a railing from the nave. In
the nave, immediately outside the rails,
stood the amho or reading-desk, some-
times called the choir, for here cluster-
ed the singers and readers whose place
it was to intone the less solemn parts
of the liturgy. Hangings, more or less
magnificent, according to circumstan-
ces, suspended above the rails, were
closed during the canon of the mass,
and shut out the holies from the sight
of the people. Over the altar was the
canopy, on four pillars, and upon the
altar a linen cloth ; and the chair of
the bishop was usually covered with
suitable drapery. When the bishop
preached, he stood or sat forward, prob-
ably in front of the altar, but within
the chancel-rails ; it was a very unusu-
al thing to preach from the amho,
though S. John Chrysostom is record-
ed to have done so in Sancta Sophia,
in order to be better heard by the peo-
ple. Origen, therefore, would preach
from the sanctuary on the Lord's-day ;
bishop, priests, clergy, and people, in
their places to hear him ; the pontiff
in his fiat mitre with the tn/uke of
the high priesthood ; the priests in the
linen chasubles that came down and
covered them* on every side ; the dea-
cons and others in their various tunics
and albs ; the singers and readers with
the diptychs and books of chant laid

774

Origen cd Casarea.

I)'

ready open on the desk of the amho ;
the faithful in the .nave, men on one
side and women on the other; the
yirgins and the widows in their seats
apart ; the various orders of penitents
in the nave or in the narthex, and the
band of liBtcnin{» catechumens in front
of the " royal gates" (of the nave) that
they hofK'd soon to b| allowed to en-
ter. His hearers would be of all de-
grees of fervor, and of many different
ranks ; they might include Greek
philosophers and poor vemm or house
slaves, patricians of Roman burghs,
and Syrian jwrters ; doubtless the
bulk of them were the poor and the
lowly of Caesarea. He had to say a
word to all, and he found means to say
it, in the word of Holy Scripture. He
had, by this time, dispensed himself
from ]»reviously writing liis discourses ;
and hence many of tliose that have come
down to us are the shorthand reports
that wore taken down as he s[)oke, and
afterward corrected by himself. The
text or subject of tlie discourse was that
portion of Scripture which had just
been recited by the reader, or part of
it ; thou;rh sometimes we find that ho
had a text given him by tlie bishop or
by the pn»5ibytery, and tliat occasionally
he selected a jmrticular subjt^ct at the
desire of ** some of the brethn^i." He
held his own copy of the Scripture in
his hand ; for we find him compiiring
it with the version just used by the
reailer. His discourses weiv not set
piec(?s of clofiuence ; they were true
homilies, that is, familiar and ea^y
addn»s?!(»s, almost seeming to have
develo|Mvl themselves out of an ear-
lier styh^ of dialogue Ix^tween priest
and people. They have all the abrupt-
ness, all the questionings and answer-
ings, all the explanations of tenns and
sen ton COS, and all the appreciation of
difficulties^ that su'^fst mther the cat-
echist with his class than tlie pn'acher
with his auditory. We miss the |kk»-
try and fino fancy of Clement, but we
gain in onlerly and connecl<»d develop-
ment. One is ctM-tainly tempted to
think that more artistic . and orna-
mental treatment might have been

expected from the son of
and the teacher of rlietor
Origefi tclLs us more than oni
studiously avoids worldly an
eloquence. His reason seei
to seek. Rhetoric was the
fession of the pag-an teat:
abounded in every town oj
pire ; and S. Augu.*tin's e:
that rhetoric meant the art
lies, was not exagireratwl.
in those days did not moan
and immortjil precepts of
but the vain heaping tugeihei
words. It was tlie nrcessi
testing against this that has
wily given much of their r
to the homilies of Origon. I
word was, edification ; his rul
as he expressly says, wa-*,
pleteness of exposition, m
of words, but the l>enefit of
listentnl. Because he was :
ho rejected tedious and.ni
quisitions, which wen* mor
for " the leisure of a writer."*
he was a si)eakor of the
avoided, even to austerity, i
tion of pr(*fj?jie an<l ]K'rviTitvl
was rich in niattt r. and |h»i
a stream of d«K'trini\ of «x
of reproof. His name ami
did the rest. A word ln>i
had more weight than a \v\\
an unknown nxiuth. Wf ha
ord of how his audi«'nro tm
courses, save what is iuipli
general te.-*timony to liU |
reputation. But, on tho o;
he pn^sents us willi a fow 1"
his audience. We leani 1
wen* n*adii*r to hxik at'uT tin
of tlie church than i\w bt-a;
their own souls. It ap|H'a
was difficult to got an auili*
ther oil common wook-.ia\s
thov wore som«'wliat n-nil
senibling evon on fosiivjil«*, i
spi'aks of a few as " con-iia
ants" on the preaching. Tho
co!n(i to chunrli, ioo often ea
much to hear (lod's word, a
it was a festival, and beoau
pleasant to luivc a holid:i

Origen at (kcmxreja.

775

soxx&e escaped the sermon fdtogether
hy going out immediately after the
rea^clmg. " Why do you complain of
ni»t, knowing this and not knowing
tbsLt;,'' he says, " when you never wait
for the conference, and never interro-
ga.te your priests P' Moreover, many
wlio were present at the discourse
in body, were far away in spirit, for
" tliey sat apart in the comers of the
Lord's house and occupied themselves
with profane confabuhition.'' He did
not preach to an immaculate audience:
there were many who were Christians
in name, Pagans in life ; many wly)
tnmed the house of prayer into a den
of thieves; many who preferred the
Agora, the law courts, the farm, before
the charch ; and many who could pro-
vide pedagogues, masters, books, mon-
i ^9 and time, that their children might
learn the liberal arts, but who failed to
Ke that something of the same dili-
* gOQce and sacrifice was necessary on
their own parts if they wished to be-
E coQie true disciples of the word of
. God. But from all this it would be
^'TOng to infer that Origen's hearers
Were worse than others in their cir-
oitxi^anees. Doubtless they listened
•^^it reverence both to his teaching
1^^ to his rebukes. Perhaps even
^y applauded him by acclamation;
•"^^h a tMng was not unknown a cen-
^*^ or so later. It would be little to
^^Sen*8 taste to have his audience
JJ^y^ing their garments and rocking
™^** bodies in ecstasy or calling out
J>«*ttodox r as they did to S. Cyril,
• J* -AJerandria, or " Thou art the thir-
•^*:*^th apostle !" as the excitable Con-
'l^^tinopolitanB did to 8. Chrysostom ;
•jj^^ S. Jerome, he preferred ^ to excite
***^ firief of the people rather than their
I^I^I^iue, and his commendation was
™^i» tears." S. Vincent, of Lerins,
*^^^ centaries after Origen's preaching
", ^Oesarea, speaks of the way in
?L^*C5hhi8 « eloquence" affected himself.
^^ liis audience were as well satisfied,
*°^y must have listened to him with
P"^^ pleasure and profit. " His dis-
^^i^e," says S. ^ncent, in the Com-
^'^^'iitorinin, ** was pleasant to the fan-

cy, sweet as milk to the taste ; it seems
to me that there issued from his mouth
honey rather than words. Nothing
so hard to believe, but his poTvers of
controversy made it plain ; nothing
so difficult to practise, but his per-
suasiveness rendered it easy. Tell
me not that he did nothing but argue.
There has. never been a teacher wlio
has used so many examples out of the
Holy Writ.*' The homilies of Origen
did not pass away with the voice that
delivered them. Till he was sixty
yeai*s old he had generally written
them out beforehand. After that
time the shorthand writers beside
hun caught every word as it fell, and
so the discourses became a treasury for
ever. Fortune and time have indeed
destroyed far the greater part of the
" thousand and more tractates" which
S. Jerome says he delivered in the
church, and of what remain some only
exist in abbreviated Latin translations.
But though their letter is diminish-
ed, their spirit pervades the whole
field of patristic exposition, and many
of the greatest of the Greek and Latin
fathei-s have not hesitated over and
over again to use at length the exact
words of Origen. And so the sen-
tences first uttered in the church of
Caesarea have become the public
property of the church uni^'crsal, and
while Caesarea is a ruin and its li-
brary scattered to dust, the living word
and spirit of him who spoke there,
speaks still in cities far greater, and to
auditories far more wide ; for every
pulpit utters his thoughts, and Christ-
ian people, though they may not know
it. are everywhere ** edified " by that
which was first the offspring of his in-
tellect.

Origen had been laboring at Ciesarca
for barely four years when one of those
interruptions occurred that he had al-
ready become familiar with at Alex-
andria. The Emperor Maximin (23«5),
a barbarian giant, whose unchecked
propensities for cruelty and blood seem
to have driven him absolutely mad
before the end of his three years' reign,
followed up the murder of his bene-

776

Ori^n at CoB$are€u

1 J

factor Alexander Sevema by a series
of horrors, in which were involved both
pagans and Christians alike. Anj
roan of name, character, or wealth, in
any part of the world that could be
reached by a Roman cohort, was liable
to confiscation, torture, and death in
order to appease his frantic suspicions.
Csesarea was an important Roman
post, and as no one in Cassarea was
better known than the h^ad of the
Christian school, we soon find that
Origen is marked out for a victim. He
escaped, however, by a prompt flight,
aud reached the other Caesarea, of
Cappadocia, the see of his friend Fir-
milian. He had no sooner arrived
there than the capricious persecution
fell upon the city of his refuge, under
the auspices of Serenianus the gov-
ernor, " a dire and bitter persecutor,"
as he is called by Firmilian. In these
straits he managed to lie hid for two
years in the house of a lady called
Juliana — a house, indeed, to which he
was attracted by other considerations
beside that of safety ; for this lady was
the heiress 6f the whole library of
Symraacbus the Ebionite, one of those
learned translators of the Hebrew
Scriptures whom Origen incorporated
in the Hexapla. He himself mentions
with great satisfaction the advantages
which his (biblical labors derived from
the opportunities he enjoyed in his
Cappadocian retirement. We are also
indebted to this period for two, not the
least interesting, of his works. Maxi-
rain's informers seem to have contrived
to implicate the good Christian Am-
brose in some trouble. That Ambrose
was a man of wealth we have seen,
and he was undoubtedly, also, in some
considerable charge or employment
which necessitated his journeying fre-
quently from one Roman city to an-
other. Whether this persecution
caught him at Alexandria or Cassarea,
or elsewhere, is uncertain ; but he had
received notice of his danger and was
pre{Miring to place himself in security
when the insurrectioo of the Gordians
broke out in Syria and Asia, and in
the confusion and' trouble tliat ensued

he became the prisooer of
troops, and was immediati
destined to be sent, to Germ
the emperor had just concl
umphant campaign. The i
danger of his zealous friend
drew from Origen the lett
know now as the Exhortal
tyrium. It was ac6ompan
other, the De Oratione, wh
perhaps already compose
two works, into an *exai
which we cannot enter, shi
the interior spirit of their '
anything else that has i
When a history of the cai
of prayer comes to be i
treatise on prayer will have
oughly examined. The ]
to Martyrdom is full of the
antine vehemence and pietj
addressed to Ambrose, it is
would be accepted as a gen
the Church of Palestine to
and do manfully in the dang
on which they had fallen,
of Protectetus, a priest ol
which is associated with th
brose in the dedication, as 1
in danger of death, felicitous
it, and we may look upon it t
delivered in writing and f
tance, and on a new^ and si
ject, to that church which h
accustomed to 'edify with
during the three or four yei
ing. We unwillingly omi
upon it at large. At Maxii
^238) he returned to his ow
After this, his literary *
completed and undertaken,
and frequent. Among othe
meet with the commentari(
chicl an<!Plsaiah. on S. Mi
S. Luke, cA\ Daniel and t
minor prophets, and on sev
epistles of S. Paul. It is i
also that belongs the celobr
sit ion of the Canticle of C
which S. Jerome has said, tl
in his other works he sui
other men, so in this be sur|
self. But little of the oi
come down to us, and the

Origen at Coeiarea.

777

nuB is too free and abridged to
as to understand how this high
was deserved.

lit the same period he made a
joumej into Greece. What
n brought him to Athens we are
>rmed. We find, however, thit
ight verj highly of the Athen-
urch. In his reply to Celsus,
ig of the infiuence and weight
hristians were everywhere ac-
;, he instances the Church at
, and boasts that the assembly
Athenian people was only a
lous mob in comparison with
ngregation of the Athenian
ans. Since Athens was even
le central light of the whole
we may perhaps conclude that
s journey thither was caused by
)hase of the conflict between
»phy and the Gospel with which
been all his life so familiar,
return to Caesarea he wrote the
to Celsus, with which we shall
I ourselves presently. It was
during the reign of Philip the
a. We are told by Eusebius
igen wrote a letter to this em-
What this letter can have been
s somewhat of a puzzle in his-
Eusebius, to be sure, a couple
pters before he mentions the
relates a story, rather coldly,
Philip's coniing to the church
tioch) one Easter time as a
m, and his seating himself among
oitents when ' the bishop (S.
s) refused to admit him on any
srms. S. Babylas might well
lim and place him among the
ts, for his career, which com-
, as that of most of the Roman
PS, with the murder or his pre-
r, the young Grordian, had been
g but innocent. Certain it is,
r, that the story was current of
being a Christian. Even if he
>t, which seems the more prob-
ere is no improbability that he
ve questioned such a man as
about Christianity. It must be
ted, moreover, that this Em-
'hilip was by birth an Arabian,

being a native of Bostra. He was the
son of a robber-chief, and we are first
introduced to him as taking an impor-
tant part in the campaign of Gordian
in which the Persians were dj-iven out
of Mesopotamia. The important Ro-
man city of Bostra, though not within
the boundaries of Arabia, was suffi-
ciently near them to be considered the
metropolis of the upper part of Arabia,
as Petra was of the middle. Philip,
therefore, was evidently nothing more
than a powerful Bedouin Sheik, such
as may be seen at this very day in the
countries of which he was a native,
and had succeeded his father in the
possession of wide influence over the
predatory tribes that ranged over all
Palestine, Syria, and Arabia, except
the actual spots occupied by a Roman
military force. His character is sig-
nificantly illustrated by the incident
that raised him to the purple. When
Grordian's army was in Mesopotamia,
his dangerous captain of Free Lances
took cfire to ^ave the whole of the
commissariat supplies intercepted, and
thus caused the mutiny which termi-
nated in Gordian's death. Such a feat
was easy and natural to a chief whose
wild horsemen commanded every part
of the great Syrian desert that lay
between Mesopotamia and the Roman
stations off the Mediterranean coast.
But what is more to our purpose is,
that Origen was frequently at Bostra,
and was there at the very time of Gor-
dian's campaign and Philip's accession.
Bearing in mind the extent to which
the name of Origen was known among
the pagan men of letters, as well as
among the Christian churches, it seems
impossible but that Philip must have
heard him mentioned. Only let us
grant that the emperor had a leaning
to Christianity, even though in no bet-
ter spirit than that of an eclectic, and
the occasion of Origen's letter becomes
clear. The mention of the Syrian
desert reminds us of another cele-
brated name. Palmyra, or Tadmor of
the Wilderness, was, at the time of
which we write, almost in the zenith of
her beauty, though it was not till

778

Origen at Cce$area.

twenty years afterward that her splen-
dor cuhninated and collapded under
Zenobia and Longinus. Origen knew
the great philosopher, who had been
his auditpr at Alexandria, and whom
he had most probably met again at
Atliens. It is quite possible tliat Lon-
ginus may have become the guest of
Zenobia before Origen left Csesarea
for the last time, and, therefore, during
the time he was so familiar with the
Arabian Church. We know that he
had more than a mere acquaintance
with the author of the Treatise on the
Sublime, and, perhaps, there were no
two minds o\' the age more fitted to
grapple with each other. Of their
mutual influence we have no certain
traces, but it may be noted that amongst
the lost works of T^onginus there is
a treatise Tlepl dpxi^v. Can it have
had any relation to that of Origen under
the same name ?

It was at Ca3sarea, between the years
213 and the breaking out of the
Decian persecution in 249, th^t was
written the famous Contra Celsum.
It is justly considered the masterpiece
of its author. Ostensibly an answer
to the gainsayings of a heathen phi-
losopher, it really takes up, with the
calmest scientific precision, the position
that Christianity is so true and hangs
together with such completeness of
moral beauty, that the barkings of
Gentile learning cannot confute it, nor
the violence of Gentile hatred stop its
inevitable march. With no rhetorical
passion, with profound learning, with
a knowledge of Holy Scripture truly
worthy of Adamantius, with frequent
j)a&sag(*s of noble and ))rofound elo-
quence, the Christian d<K*tor builds up
the monument of the faith he loved
and tanght; and the work that has
come down to us through all those
agrs since it was written, has been rec-
ognized for fifteen hundred years as
one of tliose great, complete, finished
productions that are only given to the
world by the pen of a genins. Euse-
bius, his biographer, speaks of it as
containing the rcjfutation of all that has
been asserted, and, "by pre-occupa-

tion," of all that could ever hi
on certain vital matters of con
S. Basil and S. Gregory J5
strung together a series of
passages mainly from it ai
their work Philocalia, *• lo^
beautiful." S. Jerome, whc
cannot be suspected of partii
him by the side of two otl
apologists his successors, and
that to read them makes I
himself the men^st tyro, an<
up all his learning to a i
dreamy remenibranei^ of whs
taught as a boy. Bishop I
the Contra Celsum as the t
of Origen's dogmatic teachi
meant it for the public," he s
wrote it thonghtfiilly and of
pose, and he wrote it whei
more than sixty years of aq
knowledge and experienc*?.**
It must have been about
when Marcus AurtOius wns
in })ersecuting the' rhun^h (1
that a certain eclectic Plaioni
opher called CeUus, in onh.*r
tribute his share to the go
wrote an uncompromising i
Christianitv, and eailled ii bv
of The True Wnnl ; or, f I
of Truth. We have call.-,
eclectic Platonist : but, in fact,
much disputed among th«* li>ar
sect of [)hilosophers he Imnn
his allegian<*<*. Some call him
others an Epicurean, and tl
opinion is th«' common traditio
and what would seem to s
quest i(m, Epicurean is the epill
to him by Origen himself.
Origen, when he took up The
Truth to refute it, thought he v
to ivfute an Epicun-an.is q
dent ; but it is no less e\ iden
had not read many sentena
work itself iM^fore he be^an
and more than dtmbt whether
of E])icurean was a true desei
its author. In one plai-e he is
to hear **an Epicurean »
things,'* in another he ch.ii
with artfully conc«»aling his E
for a puq)0se, and in a third

Origen at CcesarecL

779

poses that if he ever was an Epicurean
be has renounced its tenets and betaken
himself to something more sound and
sensible. What made Origen hesitate
to stale plainly that he was no follow-
er of Epicurus seems to have been the
broad tradition that had attached the
epithet to the name of Celsus, thereby
identifying the writer of The Word
of Truth with the writer of a certain
work against magic, well known to
Bterary men, which was beyond all
doubt from the pen of an Epicurean
Celsus. This latter was also probably
the same as the Celsus to whom the
soofier Lucian dedicated his Alexander,
in which he shows up that impostor's
tridu and sham magic ; and Lucian,
in his dedication, alludes to the works
against magic, ju^t as Origen does. As
lAKoan died some ycai's before Origen
was bom, the works against magic
mist have been very widely known,
and their author must have been ac-
eepted as the Celsus, and, as he was
eertainly an Epicurean, that dcsigna-
liQD&stened itself also upon the other
Cdsns, the author of The Word of
Trath, who had not had the advantage
of an admiring Lucian to fix his prop-
er title in the memory of the literary
*orii But an Epicurean he certainly
•as not. One proof is quite sufficient.
The Bobjcct of magic was a decisive
}*of a true Epicurean. Not belie v-
Jg m Providence and professing, in
*ctj a sort of philosophic atheism, he
f*«derfcd that gods and demons never
"■^ofered in the concerns of the earth
^ the human race. Human and
**"^e atoms, as they got created by
Jfl^cies of accident and came toge-
™^^ fortuitously, so they continued to
Wander against each other in various
JySiand thus caused what men fool-
^7 called the cosmos, or oi-der of the
^yerse ; whilst the divine nature of
*6 immortals, serene on Olympus

Seaota a noitrls rebnf , sejanctaqne InnR^, ^
Ju prtvaU dolo^ omni, privaU |»erlcll!f,
]pn»ui« pollens oplbuji^ nil iiidlga nn^tri.
Me boi&pro meritls capitur neo tani^tur irA.
LocreUiu, de Rerum NaturAfil. 69.

He Epicurean, therefore, laughed

alike at the notion of benevolent god
and malignant demon, at providence
and at magic, and crowned himself with
flowers and drank and sinned, if his
means allowed it, under the soothing
persuasion that '* to-morrow" he was
"to die." When, therefore, we find
that tlie author of The Word of Truth
not only attributes miracles to iEscula-
piu?, Aristeas, and others, and magic
to Christ, but also considers that this
world and its various parts are com-
mitted to the custody of demons, whom
it is, therefore, proper to pi-opitate by
worship and sacrifice, we ne(?(l no
other evidence that he was no follower
of Epicurus.

On the other hand, a prominent be-
lief in the agencies of unseen powers
was a mark of the Platonist of the day.
Whatever Plato may have thought of
the inferior gods and demons (and on
some occasions, as in the Timaeus, he
speaks of them with considerable lev-
ity), the followers, who revived his
doctrine in the first centuries after
Christ, gave them a very large share
of their attention. A creator or first
father of all things was a Platonic
dogma, and man and matter must have
in some way come from him ; but in
order to bridge over the interval be-
tween two such extremes as God and
matter, recourse was had to an immense
army of intermediate beings, of which
the highest was so dignified an to be
little more than an abslniotion, and the
lowest shaded off into a species of su-
perior animal. It is this multitude of
good and bad demons that makes its
appearance in modified shape and
number in Platonist and Gnostic cos-
mogonies, and which is so puzzling to
follow through all its fantastic intermar-
riages and combinations. When Cel-
sus must have been writinjr, that i.^,
about the time S. Clement of Ah'xan-
dria began to teach, the spirit of Phito
was abroad, not only at Alexiin<lria
but at Athens and in Rome. Theurgy
was openly professed by the most rei>-
utable teachers ; their enemies called
it sorcery ; but whatever it was, it
meant some intimate communion with

780

Origen at Cc^sarea,

the invu»ible world. A writer, there-
fore, who puts the moon and stars
under tlie guardianship of heavenly
powers, who pathetically defends the
case of the demons and deprecates
their being deprived of the gratification
they derive from the " smell" of a sacri-
fice, and who attributes supernatural
powers to friends and enemies^-calling
ihem in the one case miracles, in the
latter, magic — is evidently closer to
Saceas and Porpliyry than to Epicurus
and Democritus. Celsus, however,
though he says all this, cannot be
called a real Phitonist or Neo-Platon-
ist. lie came in the early days of a
revival, and his pliilosophic pallium
hung rather loosely about him ; he was
not above following a new leader on
an occasion, provided he saw his way
to a new stroke against the Cliristians.
It must be admitted that he shows a
fair share of learning, some acuteness,
and some acquaintance with a variety
of difieiX'nt peoples and customs. On
the otlier hand, he is occa:«ionally
guilty of the most absutxl and tnmspa-
rent soj)hisms, his conceit is unbound-
ed, and his tone gi?nerally sneering and
ofh*n very offensive.

It was this philosopher then, Eclec-
tic, Platonist, an<l man ot* tl»e worM,
whose \Vonl of Truth seemed to the
pious and indefatigable Ambrose to be
80 dangerous and damaging that no
time ought to be lost in answering it.
"With this view, he attacked Origen on
the siiiycct, and by dint of pniyei-s and
representations ni:idc him take in hand
its refutation. Origen was by no means
eager to undertake the work ; and we
can partly rnter into his objections.
The book of Celsus was not a new one:
it had btMMi in the hands of the reading
worhl and in the centres of h-arning,
such a'5 Alliens, AntiiX'h, Ca^sarea, and
Alexandria, for at least sixty years,
an<l it is to be supposed that answers
to its most important objections were
common enough in the Christian
schools, though [)erhaj>s it was itself
ignored. TIumi, it was not the sort of
Inmk that could do the faithfid any
harm, for they could not read it, or, if

they did, they distrusted it e
they could not refute it. 1
late in the day for an o\}g
pagan to have any chance j
gospel of Christ. The danp
pie were those who, like tL
came .with the ch*ments of
disguised under the sheep's
Christianity ; but an hon«'Sl
lost Ills trouble ; and so Ori
promising to comply witli
of his friend, ]>lainiy says tli
has undertaken to ovcrtlin^
not conceive as having the
in shaking the oiihoiloxy <
faithful man. "That inan
" would be little to my tii
faith would be in danger of
from the words of this Ctdsi
not now even tlie advanta;!
alive ; and I do not know wli
think of one who required a
written befon? he could nie«-
sations. And. yet. lu'ciuse !
possibly be some pn»fo»iii;:
who find Celsus *s writings a
block, and would be pro;
comforte<l by anything in tli
a writing that undiTinok to
I have resolved to take in ha
utation of the work you Imvi
The expressions, " a \uiok
ten," *' writings," and " hain
are noticeable, for tln^y i*hii
enough, what has not bmi
served, that Origen*s cliiff ul
answering CeUus was ihat C
aln.*ady answen-d in the oi
ings of the church. In thi
have the explanation of the
in which ho seems to ludd li
nist — a temper whieii is >o\l
able either in war or ikiI.-ii;
Celsus had b»'en. and wa- d;
answereil, ami the only qii.-
whether it was worth wlillr* i
mally on pa})er wliat evi-ry
catechist had l)y Inan. VV
bi'tter to imitate the inaji--ti-
Jesus Christ, who spoke no
U't his life speak for him ?
affirm,'' he says, *• that tin- iL
ask me to write will be <\va
disappear before t.hai other

Origen at CoBsarea.

781

facts and the power of Jesus, which
none but the blind can fail to see.'*
And he adds, that it is not for the
faithful he writes, but for those who
have not tasted the faith of Christ, or
for those weak believers who, in the
apostle's phrase, must be kindly taken
up.

And yet Ambrose seems to have
been quite right in insisting that Orl-
flen should answer the book of Cclsus.
Its arguments might be stale, and its
inflaence small, but there it was, a formal
written record of some of the ugliest
things that could be said against Christ-
ianity and its founder. What seemed
more bcc(»ning, than that the fore-
most Christian doctor of his day should
take in hand, at a time when, external
peace and internal growth seemed to
warrant it, to give a formal, written
answer to an attack that was a stand-
ing piece of impertinence, even if it did
no harm ? Besides, some harm it must
have done, at least in the shape of
keeping well-meaning pagans from the
tniui; and though Origen is always
Bore fond of working for the spiritual
welfare of his own household than of
^ Jirect proselytizing, yet Ambrose, as a
2. convert, knew what prejudice was, and
jrr ' ^& was the importance of a work from
As pen of a Christian doctor who had
=» fa ear of the Gentile world. And
-'. Ambrose, moreover, was perfectly
"* •*are, as was every one except the
•Adtmantine himself that even if the
'•fetation embraced only the common
'JPHSB that were handled daily in tlie
CSriatian instructions, yet the result
*^d be as far above the ordinary
^Jl^clietical lesson as the master was
J**Vc the ordinary catechist. Perhays
7® *^*rdly knew, as we know, that his
y**«ice8 would produce a master-piece
^ polemical writing, from which all
•8^ Lave borrowed, and in which the
™*^«nse knowledge of Scripture, the
"^'^tiful and tender piety, and the sus-
^^^ d eloquence of expression were
^*^Talled until, perhaps, Bossuet wrote
™ Ilistoire Universelle.

*i is by no means our intention to
B^Q a detailed analysis of this won-

derful work: it is described at great
length in easily accessible authors.
But it will bo interesting to seize on
some of its most salient characters, and
thus to throw what light may be possi-
ble upon the subject of our discussion.
And the first remark that occurs seems
to be a contradiction of Origen's own
statement The Contra C(»lsura was
written more for the faithful than for
the philosophers, and was less aimed
at the de^ and gone Celsus than at
the living children of the ehurcli. It
may be true that it was not meant
precisely to confirm tottering faith or
to prop up consciences that the objec-
tions of Celsus had shaken ; but its ef-
fect would naturally be to encourage
the devout Christian by showing him
how much could be said for his profes-
sion, and exposing to scorn with irre-
sistible logic the best that could be said
by his gainsayers. If Origen had not
had in view the same audience as that
to which he preached on Sundays and
Fridays, he would hardly have dealt
so abun^ntly in the citations from Holy
Scripture which are sucii a marked
feature of the work, and he would not
have cared to expand as he does the
bare polemical branch into the flowers
and fniit of homiletic exhortation. But
the faithful were always his first
thought, and the ground-Color of all he
has written is warm and outspoken
piety. He knew much about pagan
philoso])hy and worldly science, but
when Porphyry (quoted by Eusebius)
says that Plato was never out of his
hands, we can only say that Plato is
never mentioned in his writings save
where an adversary or an error com-
pels him. A far truer picture of him-
self is given in his own woixls to his
favorite pupil, Gregory Thaumaturgus.
" You have talents," he says, " that
might make you a perfect Roman law-
yer, or a leader of any of the fashion-
able sects of Greek philosoi)liy ; but the
wish of my heart is, dear lord and my
most honored son Gregory, tliat you
make Christianity your* last end*
(reXtKij; — alluding to the siimmum
bonum o( the stoics), "and tliat you

Origen at Ccescartcu

783

trine which Celsus, in his char-
)f scoffer, is inclined to waive
than to admit), why all this in-
sable dogmatism about a Son of

Let it be enough that we do
that there is a God, who in some
I supreme; as sensible people
m demand nothing more. We
n Zeus ; you call him the Most
Sabaoth, Adonai, or what else
ease, just as the Egyptians call
mmon, and the Scythians, Pap-
Doubtless you talk of mira-
lo do all these new-fangled sects,
ey mean in reality Egyptian
You appeal, moreover, to your
sCoal teaching; we know about
BO : no sect is good for much in
iays which does not hang on to
irts of Plato, Besides, what is
"8 hear about disputes among
Itcs ? This makes the absurdity

thing better still! The Jews
\ Messiah is to come ; the Christ-
declare he has come. Pmy,
are we to believe? On what
re we solemnly to arrange our-
in this momentous dispute about
Key's shadow? Why, here we
» squadron of bats— or an army
8 swarming from their nest —
ongress of frogs in solemn ses-
ti the banks of their ditch— or
t^ of worms assembled' in full
a in a comer of their native
n hot controversy which of the
J the wickedest. We are the
hey keep saying, to whom God
)reshowA and announced all
; he has left the whole universe,
oad heavcQS, and the earth, to
fler themselves, and makes his
T« US alone ; to us alone he sends
sralds, and us he will never
to prompt and to provide for,
re may be united with him for

He is God ; and we are next
I, as being his sous and like
I all things. We ai*c lords of
ogs, earth, water, air, and stars ;

account is everything, and all is
ed to minister to us. If some of

God will come, or he will send
n, to bum up the wicked, that

the rest may Kve with him eternally.
One could listen to worms and frogs
going on in this fashion with more
composure than to you Jews and Christ
ians.

It is not Origen's object to prove
directly the importance of Christianity.
He says that it was no barbarous sys-
tem of doctrine, and challenges any
philosopher, fresh from the teachings
and the schools of Greece, to come and
examine it " He will not only pro-
nounce it true," he says, " but he will
work it up into a logical system, and
will be able to supply it with a complete
demonstration, even to a Greek. But
I must also add this : our doctrine has
a certain method of demonstration
peculiar to itself, and far more divine
than any that the Greeks have in their
schools. It is that which the apostle
calls the demonstration of spirit and
of power ; of spirit, that is, by prophe-
cies, which abundantly prove our whole
system, especially those parts of it
which concern Christ ; of power, by
the miracles which can be shown to
have taken place among us, and traces of
which still remain among those who live
according to the will of the Word."
And as Christianity was now well
known to the whole world, to scoff at
it either for its insignificance or its ab-
surdity seemed very foolish : it was a
standing fact, and challenged examina-
tion. This is partly taken for granted
partly incidentally expressed through-
out the reply. But the impudent
scurrility of the passage about the bats,
frogs, and worms, rouses Origen's in-
dignation. *' The Jews and the Christ-
ians," he says, " because they hold dog-
mas which Celsus does not approve,
and which he does not seem to be very
well acquainted with, are worms and
ants, are they ? The peculiar opinions
in which the Jews and Christians dif-
fer from other men, are not unknown to
tlie world. If a man, therefore, feels
inclined to call a part of his fellow-men
worms and ants, I will show him whom
to call so. The men who have lost
the true knowledge of God, whose
religion is all a sham-'ibe worshipping

784

Origen at Cce$area,

bnite beaats and graven stocks, and
lifeless matter — creatures who^e beauty
should have led them to glorify and
adore their Creator — ^these are tlie
worms and ants. But those who, led
on by reason, have risen above stocks
and stones, above silver and gold, and
everything material ; who have risen
above this whole created universe unto
him that made, all things ; who have
confided themselves wholly to him;
who recognize him almighty over
every creature, seeing every thought
and hearing every pniyer ; who send
up their ])rayers to him only, doing all
that they do as though he saw it, and
speaking all their wonls that none may
be displeasing to him who hcareth
them all — these, surely, are men ; nay,
if it were possible, more than men.
They may have been worms once, but
shall not such religion (tvatijhia) as
this, that no trials can shake, no dan-
ger, not even death itself, destroy, no
persua^tiveness of words overcome, be
their shelt<?r against such jibes for the
future ? What ! shall they who restrain
the ap[)etitos that make men soil and
yielding as wax — and restrain them
because they knowuthat by continence
alone they ciin obtain familiarity with
God* — shall tlicy be called the brothers
of worms and the kindred of ants, and
the near neighbors of frogs ? Forbid
it Jualice ! glorious Justice, that gives
social rightrii to fellow-men, that guards
the eqiiitnbloy the humane, and the
kind — tbrbid that such men as these
should be likened to birds of night !
Call those wonns of the slime, who
wallow in lust — the common herd of
men, who do evil and call it right —
but siinily not those who have been
taught that their bodies, inhabited by
the light of reason and the grace of the
omnip()t(Mit Lord, are the * temfiles of
the Ciod whom they adore.' '* It is a
subject that warms him, and he ]Hirsues
it at some length. lie does not imitate
the s;rurrility and abusiveneris of his
adversary, though he must have been
sorely tempted sometimes, to say some

. * Tbc cxpree^lou of the conteuporary Platoubto.

plain things about paganism. C
shows all the liveliness of langna
a man who carries on a pcrsoDal
rel. lie is not above calling hi
mies " drunken" and •* blear-eyed
hardly takes the trouble to m
tlmt they are irratioaal fools ; a
a specimen of his more fancif
Luiguage the pas^sage quoted abo
suffice. Origen sometimes coo
of this, as well he may. He sa;
Celsus "scolds like an old w<
that ho shouts calumny like the
of a street-mob, and, as a &
climax, that he reminds hin
couple of '^ women slanging eacl
in the street." But the scoffer i
reviler is afVerall not our philosc
favorite rd/Ic. Perhaps he wil]
better as the man of intellect.

The man of intellect has a f
severely classic mould, wherec
normally a thoughtful frown, as I
he were ever asking himself tfa
son of things, varied by a pitying
when he finds it necessary to reo
the existence of a non-intellc^ta
ing. His hands are very whit
pallium neat, his hair scented, ai
whole appearance be!«peak5 him
on the most distant terms with tli
fane multitude. Wheu Cliriai
first had the bad taste to talk i
of penance and hell-fire, he di
deign to 8i>eak, but only scowle
gust ; but in a century or two he
to see he must say something 1
own credit. lie therefore heft
utter lof\y sentences and to eiapl
smile of pity, though the early 1
disgust was so vcTy deeply priul
his countenance that it never
ward let\ him. This is the si
his case : — ** This foolish system
Christianity makes sc«me little n(
is true. But a phila<fopher has <
glance at it, to despise it. I hai
and examined the b4X>ks and w
of the sect ; I have conversed f
learned men, and I find that it is
tially low, grovelling, and vulgai
pudiates wisdom altogether ; it fo
i'orbids the educated, the leamc
the wise to be numbered amt

Origen at Casarea.

785

3. On the other band, it en-
Lly recruits its ranks from
the uneducated, the weak-
and the imbecile. These are
of men the Christian teachers
to be most acceptable to their
OS showing clearly that they
dther the ability nor the wish
converts of any but the feeble-
common people, and country
laves, women, and children,
re wary; they are like the
and cheap-jacks of the agora,
2 care not to obtrude themselves
ose who could find them out,
r off before the children in the
Gmd the loitering house-slaves
idmiring mob of any fools they
hA. They are mean and un-
. You shall see, in a private
our slave, your weaver, your
laker, or your cloth-carder — a
wholly without education or
, and silent enough before his
and his betters — ^the moment
himself alone with the children
women, beginning to hold forth
ellons style* Parents and pre-
are no longer to be obeyed, but
» be believed implicitly ; they
d and doting, immersed in
trifles, and incapable of seeing
; what is really good, he alone
art thd secret of virtue ; let the
believe him, and they will be
iemselves and bring a blessing
house. Meanwhile, let father
r make his appearance, he
l^ts frightened and stops ; but
ft determined one,%he just whis-
parting, that children of spirit
lot Butoiit to parental tyranny ;
tias much to explain which the
I of others will not allow him
; that he canpotbear the sight
iDy and ignoitmce of such cor-
ind lost men, who moreover are
every pretext for punishing
lally, that if the dear children
hear more, they must come,
( women and as many of their
ioiis as they know of, into the
I apartment, or into the card-
vol- IV. 60

ing-room or the leather-shop — and so
he contrives to get hold of them."

Perhaps there was nothing in Christ-
ianity that disgusted the philosophers
so much as the fact that it went out
af^er the poor, the lowly, and the* sin-
ful, and offered them a share in all
that it could teach or promise. That
the common herd had no need and no
right to philosophy was an accepted
tenet with the new Platonists. The
passage just quoted is interesting;
through its transparent misrepresenta-
tion we can see the poor man and the
slave, in the second century, in the
actual process not only of having the
gospel preached to them, but also act-
ively preaching it as well as they could
to others. The sophism of Celsus,
that Christians prefer fools and sinners
for converts, therefore they must be all
a foolish and wicked set, must have
been stale, we maj hope, by the time
Origen undertook to answer it He
enters into the whole accusation, how-
ever, and refutes, almost woid for
word, the whole of what we have just
given and more to the same purpose.

But the intellectual objector has
something positive to say, as well as
something negative. He announces,
therefore, with almost ridiculous so-
lemnity, that he will have pity on these
poor Qiristians, and tell them how they
are to obtain union with God, what
masters they are to follow, and what
heroes they are to imitate ; in short, he
will provide them with a theology, a
gospel, and an assemblage of saints.
For the saints, they are our grand
Grecian heroes — Hercules, Orpheus,
.^SsculapiuB, and the rest, from Anax-
archus, who encouraged the tyrant who
was having him bruised in a mortar to
^ pound away on* the mortal coil of
Ajiaxarchus,'' to Epictetus, who made a
cheerfnl remark when his master broke
his leg. For the gospel, it is the most
powerful teaching of the divine and
immortal Plato ; and for the theology,
it is the following aeutence from the
TmueuB : ^ To diacover the maker and
the father of the un^Yets^ ^ ^ ^^"^

Origen at Casarea.

787

the power of making men act on
doctrines, which never a Greek
opher jet could boast of. And
s to the heroes and philosophers,
ithers and saints of paganism.
us see what leaders Gelsus wishes
follow, to the end that we may
a without ancient ^d reverend
8 of heroism. He sends us to
mbued poets, as he calls them,
iges, and the philosbphers, whom
licates in a general way, without
ig particular names. He sends
so, to Hercules, 2Ssculapius, and
38t, to learn heroism from their
contempt of death, not unfittingly
ded by the myth that has deified
Where he does not mention
I it is hard to refute him. Had
med his divine poet or sage, I
1 have tried to show him to be a
guide ; but since he has not done
DUSt content myself with appeal-
> what eveiy one knows of the
\ poets as a body, and asking
ler they can be compared for a
nt to Moses, for instance ; to the
ets of the creator of all things ;
all, to him who has shone foi*th
the race of man, and announced
the true way in which Grod would
Ted ; who, as far as lay in him,
illed that none should be ignorant
secret teachings, but, in his super-
ding philanthropy, has both given,
learned a theology that can raise
souls above all things here below,
et at the same time condescends
weak intellect of the untaught
of the simple woman, and the
hold slave — himself assisting them
d a better life, each in his degree,
iing to the teachings about God
vtry one of them has been enabled
re. He mentions Hercules. Has
gotten the ugly story about that
i base servitude to Omphale. It
i take some persuading to make
J divine honors to the ruffian that
I the poor farmer's ox by main
and devoured it before his eyes,
: the owner cursed him, and he
d to enjoy the ctirses as much as
eal itself; whence is derived the

edifying custom of accompanying his
saci-ifices by a rite of powerful execra-
tions. He mentions w^culapius. I
have already dealt with -^sculapius :
he was a clever doctor, but he did noth-
ing very extraordinary. He puts up
Orpheus. Of course, Celsus is aware
that Orpheus wrote about the gods far
more impiously and fabulously than
Homer ever did. Now, he consideA,
with Plato, that Homer's poems are un-
fit to be permitted in the model repub-
lic ; so that it is perfectly evident that he
introduces Orpheus here for the sole
purpose of defaming us and disparaging
Jesus. Poor Anaxarchus in his mortar
undoubtedly affords a great example
of fortitude ; but as this happens to be
the solitary fact that is known about
Anaxarchus, it would be difficult to
make him a model hero and absurd
to make him a god. Then, as to Epic-
tetus : there is no need of depreciating
him; it is enough to say, that his
words and deeds are not worthy of
the most distant comparison with the
words and deeds of one whom Celsus
despises ; for the sayings of Jesus con-
vert the wise and the simple. Celsus
asks : * What did your God say in'his
sufierings like to this ? I answer that
his patience and his bravery in his
scourgings and his thousand ignomi-
nies were better shown by his silence
than by any word ever uttered by suf-
fering Greek. But he did speak."
And then he touches on some of the
words of Jesus in his agony. It is to
us like a new revelation of the gospel,
like a new Epiphany, to read the com-
parison of the life of Jesus with the
lives of the best and noblest of anti-
quity. It brings vividly to our imagi-
nation the brilliancy of the dawn of
that day of Christ Jesus (into whose
light we are baptized, and in which we
live with little appreciation), when we
can call back again the shades of pa-
ganism, and watch the gross darkness
as it lifts and moves slowly off befbre
the sun of justice. We can realize
something of the feelings of earnest
hearts as they came within the reach
of that light, and ^haxe a little in the

788

Ori^fm ai Vat$€ti^a,

excitement of a conflict wherein the
victor overctime, not, like Perseus,
by displaying ihc horrors of a Gor-
gon's head, but bj unveiling, philoso-
phically* nrlistlcallj, entbusiastieally,
ibc charms of a *♦ thnology^* upon
whme beauty and truth tbcT<? were
no drawb;y'kB, and in whose abysses
of gladdening hope there were resting
^lacvs for every want and wish of a
human heart. Origen lota the light
in upon the poor heroes and purblind
gages of a Cimmerian night, and he
forgets the scoffiags of wretched phi-
losophy, as he cxpiatcef on the Jove,
the kindness, the philanthropy, the
condescending gi'ace of the Word,
who is God. We cannot follow
bim far. The intellectual objector
lias much to say about the unreason-
ableness of faith ; and llie Chrtsliaa
doctor vindicates scientific theology,
whilst he shows how the enjwd of
men must simply believe or be with-
out any teaching whatever. He »uyA
deep and pregnant things slxjut faith,
science, and wisdom, that would beur
^ruit if reproduced in an age like ours-
Then lie enters at great length into the
critical objectiona of the man of intelr
* lect against the life and actions of
•TedUd, more eapecially against the
great comer-slotje of faith, the reaur-
rcctioD. And throughout the whole
of his deononstralions on intellectual
grounds, he is fond of calling allention
to two grand arguments of fact* that
tto amount of subtlety can explain
away, and that the dullest v^it can-
not help seeing: first, that i" ■
has changetl and refonned i
ab in away totally unejcampk-fi
ond, that such a systera of »l ^
and morality can neVbr by any possi-
bihty have been the product of humiin
thoughi, e5[>eciany seeing what sort
of men have propagated and professed
it, " not many wise, not many nobk ;**
therefore its origin is divine, and its
Author is the great creator of whom
Plato sfH>ke in stammering words, aod
whom all philosophy has sought*

Celr^u^, after having laughed at
Chriitiaaity, aud atgt^ against it|

and having flomeliiiiea
menlativcly, and ttt oChiirl
by a laugh, apfieari
of his book in the
acter of the ciri^^rn, nr
nent of im
fends* the <

myths* th* ri&o

the old n . fn

radicalism of : t

ting the very fuu.^.:.;^ uat i
der, and eiidaog)ecis£f wbat j
gion ttie commofi peopli
to practise. ** All tlii
Bociation and sectar
against the law of tha <
repudiate temples, Uioj
utes, they mock at tl«
incense and the MUtr
things; and they IcH
goers and frequentens
arieii that they are doin^j
and worihi|iping devib.
proper, sensible, and righll
that each nation pr«^ser
customs and laws. One
found the afivantage of
stitutions, another of anc
keep what is onoG €it
and competent antliorit
are p«.*rfectly right in
of llieir jiarticuhir lawii.'*
cool, in one who hatl just
ing the Jews with all hia
ridicule and logic —bat
s()eaking iu a differ
** Bcinides, there is
deeper reason for Ihia.
ble that in the begimili^ of^

parts of ifafi eaitli ^

1 to diverse powera i
ions to be presided o^nr and

according to their plea/soi^jj
therefore bo wrong to
institutions which tJiey-
liahed from the b«*^"
eral prefectures, hi
feclly certain that
the work! tliat ia aol i
to some deuuMi*
moment he eolfiri Ihm i
body, pasM
I : r thm
ti, laaa, who

Origtn at Ckuarea,

789

thorities here, tell us that to
3r the yarious parts of a maii^s
ere are told off no less than
thirty demons or aerial pow-
le say more) ; and they even

their names, as Chnoumen,
ramen, Cnat, Sicat, and others,
iiDg whom you obtain health
r various limbs. Certainly,
3, if a man prefer health to
, and happiness to miseiy,

no reason why he should not
limself from evil by propitiat-
se beings who have him in
One or two things, there-
ther the Giristians must live
ivorld and worship those who
i world, or they mast abjure
3, never have children, take
in the affairs of men, in fact
rom the eafth altogether, and
> seed behind them. If they
lare in the goods, and to be
1 from the evils of this world,
s "both unreasonable and un-

not to render tribute to the
13 of what they enjoy and
ers from whom they have so

fear." The proud and fas-
philosopher has fallen low.
1 interval between the grand
s of Plato and the humiliat-
»sions of the apologist of idol-
! And yet both extremes
5 duly considered, before we
Jize the Paganism of the
tonic revival. The demon-
Zoroaster, which was the procr
gion of the whole East, had en-
d the Platonic philosophy and
1 itself upon it ; and the sages
Grreek cities as Csesarea found
es seriously defending the
rship of the wandering Ar-
roved over the plains of Syria
i, ignoring the centres of civil-
bat Alexander's conquest had
n their midst"
first part of the objectoi^s
appeal on behalf of establish-
itutiona" is easily disposed of.
ument, carried to its lawful

becomes ridiculous. " The
I law kills all the old men ; the

Persian law sanctions incest; the
Crimeans sacrifice strangers to Diana ;
in one part of Africa they immolate
their children to Saturn. One national
law makes hanging a virtue, another
commends death by fire. Some
nations reckon it pious to worship
crocodiles, others pay divine honors to
cows, others ag^n make gods of goats,
and one people adores what another
eats. This is making religion, not a
truth, but a whim and a fancy. This
is making piety, holiness, and righteous-
ness, affairs of opinion, and not ascer-
tainable, fixed reiEdities. Suppose some
one were to get up and say the same of
temperance, prudence, justice, or for-
titude, would he not be considered an
imbecile ? The truth is, there are two
sorts of laws ; the unwritten law of
Natufie, of which the author is Gcod,
and the written law of the state. If
the state-law is not at variance with
Grod's law, it ought to be kept and to
be preferred before the laws of
strangers ; but if it oppose the law of
Grod, it must be trampled upon, even
though danger, ignominy, and death
be the consequence.' Thus much for
the sentiment of nationality, and the
common and obvious reasons, as Origen
calls them, that will make plain men
repudiate it But the demon-theory
and the alleged distribution of things to
the aerial powers, leads to a deeper
and more serious question. Knowing,
therefore, that his book will fall into
the hands of some who will be inclined
to examine such questions to the bot-
tom, he undertakes to speak more at
length on the matter. This gives him
an opportunity of showing, by the his-
tory of the dispersion of Babel, how it
is that we find such diversity of peoples
in different parts of the earth. Their
dispersion was a punishment; the
ministers of this punishment are the
wicked spirits, acting as the instru-
ments of God. One nation alone re-
mained jn God's favor, and even it had
to be punished through the " princes"
or spirits of other nations. 0€ Gco^^
mysterious dealings with tbia oaWotv,
and of the redempUou that waa to ^^^^^

Origen ai CoeMorea.

791

im who ' raiseth up kings and
them,' and « who provideth a
T in his season upon the
'he kmgly poweris from God,
rod's will we ohey it ; would
elieyed this as we do I You

to enter the imperial armies

for the state. But no men
ir country as the Christians
y are taught to use heavenly
ehalf of their rulers, and to
3aven for < kings and all those
in high places;* and their
heir mortifications, and their
jnt are of more avail than
iiers set in array of battle.
3nd all this, they teach their
9n the worship of the Lord of
;here is no earthly city so lit-
aean but they can promise
8 a heavenly city with Grod.
Ttus to enter the magistracy
ect our country's laws and

We have in every city an
ion that is to us a second
•eated by the word of God,
by those who are powerful in
sound in work ; excuse us if
•n ourselves mainly with the
y of the church. The ambir
reject ; those whose modesty
!m refuse the solicitude of the

Grod, these we compel to ac-
Fhe presidents of God's state

by God's will to rule, and

not defile then: hands with
ry of human laws. Not that
n refuses his share of pubUc
but he prefers to reserve
r burdens and for a service
er and more necessary sort,
s concerned the salvation of
le Christian magistrate has a
ver all men; of those that
I, that they live better every
those that are without, that

be numbered among those
nd speak the things of God-
Serving Grod in veiy truth,
r whom he may, he lives full
ine word and law, and so he
lead to the Lord of All every
I converted and wishes to live
f law, through the divine S<m

of God that is in him, his word, his
wisdom, his truth, and his righteous-
ness."

With this description of the Chris^
ian bishop, we conclude our remarks
on Origen. It will doubtless have oc-
curred to most of our i*eaders that we
have too completely ignored the charges
of heterodoxy that have so often been
made against the name of Origen. But
we do not admit that Origen was un-
sound in faith, much less that he was
formerly heretical. Although not un-
prepar^ to justify this conviction, w^
cannot do more at present than invoke
the authority of a new and important
contributi(»i to the Origen-controversy,
which was notified in our last number.*
Professor Yincenzi, it is confessed by
competent and impartial critics, has to-
tally 'dissipated the notion that Ori-
gen denied the eternity of punishment.
As to the other accusations, he goes
through them one by one and confutes
them, without admitting anything what-
ever in the genuine works of Origen
to be theologically unsound, " excepting
a few points on which the fathers of
his age were as doubtful and uncertain
as himself, since the Church had not
then defined them."! Thirdly, he un-
dertakes to prove that S. Jerome was
completely mistaken, through no fault
of his, with regard to the merits of a
controversy in which he played so
memorable a part; and, lastly, he
maintains that Origen was never con-
4^mned by Pope or council, discussing
especially the alleged condemnation by
the fifth general council. Under shelter,
then, of the authority of a work that
comes to us with the approval of the
Roman censorship, and which on two
separate occasions has been warmly
praised in the Civilt^ we cannot be
wrong in waiving, at least, all discus-
sion, in articles like the present, on the
alleged errors of Origen. What has
been said, though it has lefl the greater

* In S. Oregorll Nyuenl et Oriff«nls serlpta ei doc-
trinam nora^ recension, per Aloysiiua VLncenxL 4
Toli. RottuB, 1865.

t '*Danunodo tamen ^onnnlU exceperls, qu«
pariter apud Patres costos adhue dubla raanebont et
locerta; qolppe noaduni %\i Bccleaifc de&xiUa.^^—

792

The TdU of a TomMone.

part of his work unconsidered, may
perhaps have served to draw attention
to one who is in some respects the
{greatest of the Greek fathers. He did
not live lon<]; after the completion of
the Contm Celsum. As he had been
the faith's cliampion from his orphaned
boyhood to his old age, so he merited
at least to suffer as a martyr for the
Truth ho had served so long. His
tortures in the Decian persecution did
not immediately cause his death, but
they hastened it He died at Tyre in
253 or 254. The cities where ho
taught are now mere names. Alexan-
dria is a modem Turkish town, Caesa-
rea is a heap of broken columns and
ruined piers, Athens is the capital of a
pitiful nation of mongrel Hellenes,
Bostra and Pctra are tombs in the de^
erts of Arabia. But two things are
not likely to grow less in their great-
ness or to lose the vividness of their

importance, the fHith
what Origen has done
other region of Uie W4
with names that are c
histories as grand as
cities of the £ast, unl
bringing back a cond
encounter which the
will have to put hiiii
cumstances of tliose ai
met and overthrew sc
in the second and
Faith, and what is fai
must believe, occupi<
Origen. The same i
cupying the thouglit
and many a hint may
many a suggestive a
by those who will take
stand-point and look
looked at in tlu; polcn
great Alexandrian sc!

THE TALE OF A TOMBSTONE.

BY D. O C. TOWXLET.

It is quite true to say, that tlie
American makes a miRtake who, in
his European tour, leaves Ireland out
in the cold unviaited. He at loast fails
to make an acquaintance which could
not prove otherwise tlian interesting,
and possibly to find a burying-placc
where, if he hajd them, he miiriit dis-
pose of his sufierfluous i^rejudices bear-
ing .!i]H)n that island and its people —
prejudicrs for the most part begotten
of ill-directed n»ading or fonne«l with
the hasty conclusions of a very limited
experience.

If a politician, he cannot fail to
learn, ere he travels many miles, whe-
ther in Connaught or in Ulster, what
he ought not to do with a people hav-
ing a desire to see tiiem prosi)eroiis
and contenteil. If a historian, he may
find food for a chapter unwritten by

Hume 'and Smollot.
more impartial ^laca
which may throw son
cause, ever obscurflji
tnithfully given, wlm
spirit of retit)jrressi()
over tiie unhappy isl:
blighting hanjf upon
Cork to the Giant's ('
be a painter, a poet, (
may tind in IrelaTid
an Eldoi-atlo with min
blc as tlie ore is ric
nien»ly, even snoh a <
don in a tortiiight, I
and the Khine on tli(
upon that ancient riv»
sonl who takes his
nights, and on the df
sirs yawning over din
ows fall, and the

The 2hl€ of a TambtUnu.

793

Inkb have been passed unseen
— <Ten such as he, stupid or blase^
■ as the case may be, maj find in Ire-
land lomething to awoke to momentary
energj, at least, his sleeping thought
andaction.

Approaching the fall of 18 — , hav-
ing done the continental celebrities
die year before, and having been in
England since early in the month of
May, I concluded, before returning to
Neir York, that I should pay a flying
virit to the emerald cradle of that pro-
t Bfleiaee, which is, in the language of the
I stamp, when it suits the orators to say
^ ^ io^ the bone and sinewtof these States ;
I the great lever which uproots our
ixcstB; the great spade which hol-
hnraoor canals; the huge pick and
•borel and barrow, that lay our iron
mda over mountain and morass ; and
the mighty poUing power which de-
vek^ the peculiarities of legislators,
coDbibates most generously to the rev-
ttoe of the excisie, and to the sAste-
Mmee of the many good and bad peo-
pk whose business of life it is to get
duB truly erratic people into all man-
ner of trouble, including jails, and out
of it

With no prejudices against the Irish
People, and some clear-sightedness as
to the causes of their proverbial dis-
eontentyunthrifkiness, and frequent tur-
Wence, I went quite ready to sorrow
V be glad, just as cither mood was
■meeted by my surroundings ; nei-
™w to sneer at their emotional enthu-

■n nor to turn disgusted from their
Mhri onB mirth.

Cnesing from Holyhead to Dublin,
^JJ^ttsined in that city for a few days,
J™> Yiiited the south and west, leav-
"^ the industrious north to finish off
J'^th, But as tlie purpose of this sketch

* Dot to retail either impressions of
™ Coontry or its people, or all the
P'^'onal experiences of my journey,

* ^oit proceed to the narration of the
■°tio incident, the object of this writ-
■?ft referring the reader, if his appe-
™^ lean in the direction, to the pen-
^ ' of Mr. Willis or the much

more truthful story-telling of Mrs. Hall.
My immediate purpose i3 gained if I
have in a slight degree awakened the
reader's interest for that which follows,
and if ho understands tliat I had now
almost reached that period which I had
set down for the close of my tour and
my return home.

Of the month I had set apart for
Ireland — the bonne botiche, or, if you
like the Celtic better, the " dock an
durhas'* of my feast — I had but one
week lefl when I found myself at
Warrenpoint, a pleasant watering place
on the margin of the bay of Carling-
ford, going northward to Belfast. Here
I had been two days, rather longer
than I had proposed to remain, but the
season and the place at this time of
the year arc especially attractive. So
near Ireland's highest mountain as I
then was, it occurred to me how discred-
itable the confession would be that I
had not seen it save in the purple dis-
tance, and I concluded to do myself the
honorof a near acquaintance — sit upon
its topmost ridge, and rifio a sprig of
heather from its venerable crown as a
relic of the nearest spot to heaven on
the Isle of Saints.

" No," said mine host, " your honor
must never say good-by to Ireland
until you see her only living monarch
who has not emigrated or been trans-
ported to a penal colony I''

Slicve Donard, the king in question,
was but t\Yelve miles distant, or ra-
ther the village nestling at its foot.
The road to Newcastle, the name this
village bears, was one of peculiar beau-
ty all the way, and I chose, to me, the
most enjoyable of all ways of reach-
ing it — ^I determined to walk there. So,
about eight o'clock on a beautiful au-
tumn morning, the dew still upon the
grass and glistening upon the rustling
leaves of the beeches in a grove of
which my -rustic hotel lay shadowed,
armed with a stout blackthorn, a book
in either pocket, and a light breakfast
in its appropriate department, I set
out upon my journey ; accomplished it
most eiyoyably, arriving wiih but a

794

The Tal$ of a ThmUtone.

faint remembrance that I Bud eiiten
any breakfast whatever, and jusi in
time for the table cTftSte at Bnidy'i.

The hotel was full with the mot-
ley occupants peculiar, there a§ else-
where, to hotels by the seaside in ihe
b«*thmg season. Among the guegsta
were reverend gentlemen asaorted in
the nicest manner, lean kine and fat ;
the good-natured parish priejt and the
more Hanctimonious and exclusive cu-
mte of the orthodox persuasion ; eurly
country squires who had nished down
to please their wives and the girls —
** what did they want with salt water ?**
the city shopkeeper and his prim prop-
erty, exulting in evidence of ton in
every word and movement. Even the
eye-j3:lasfied, red, and wiry-whiskered
Cockney could be seen and heard, pos-
sibly attracted there by the reputation
of the ** Iliri«h girls for fiue hives and
hinteilecte/'or probably from a {)eruliar
hoiTor, for private reasons, of other
watering places nearer home, where
landlords were less generous and ac-
oommodating, being more ex|>erienced.
These, and such as these, with a few
who came to see rather than to he
seen, made up the guests at Brady's*

After dinner I joined a party of the
class last mentioned who purposed de-
voting the rest of the attcmoon t« an
excursion upon the mountain, ascend-
ing as high at least as would enable
them to enjoy a scene pronounced by
travellers to be one of the finest in a
land praised alike in song and story
for its scenic beauty. The unmingled
enjoyment of that aacent — for the labor
of the jouniey waj a pleasure too — is
one of the most pleasant of the many
bnppy memories which I owe to the
" Isle of Tears*" The landscape which
unrolled itself like a scroll aa we
HB^^nded was of remarkable beauty.
Rich with all the gorgeous coloring of
the season was spread out as far as the
eye could rt^ach tlic un shorn wealth of
corn-field and of meadow. Here and
there a clump of beech or chestnut shel-
tered, half hidden among the foliage,
the saow-white wsdb of a farm house.

Liliputian 0g
through laoe »n&
like the tiny figures in
Ing than men and
The rock' bound h%y
its freight of toy-
whose white sails f
hued of evening
down toward I be \
Slieve Dooard.
braced from an
hundred feet, H
I revel for a mpo
si on lasts, in the unal
which was born of iU\

But nil I set omt to i
theatre is not the
valley underneath. It
down again to eupp
leaving, however
Donard and its poet

Leaving Newc
which all must f
a season, T sit
brc '

ten! _

ha\ d my '

war^ L' from

Point.

Castlcweltan is bq
tant, and the jottmcyi
to be one of the mott
in this romantic n.»gic]

The road, for the <
one uninterrupted
summit of one
which the vilkgQ(
ereri' points
a jutting moufl
path^ and for a id<3
V ision — n view of llkflj
sea, the ■

each fiKji it

new beamy oi fo
and shadow to the t

Half way upon
down to rest for a
the road 6lde and iigh
der its doothing
the scene bene
one of thoae 1
we somctiiiies fcii
a while, our i

The Idle of a Thmhetane.

795

oontemplation of the wondrous bcnuty,
jet Btill more wondrous mystery, of the
Creator's handiwork.

I had been thus but a short time in-
deed when the sound of approaching
footsteps broke in upon my thought,
followed by the customary salutation,
^God save you, sir, 'tis a heavenly
morning that we have."

Replying in the country phraseology,
• Crod save you kindly," I raised my
eyes to see the passing figure of a
stooped old man, with a spade upon his
shoolder, moving slowly onward 'neath
his weight of years and in my direction.
Always fond of a companion, when wan-
dering in this way, being usually for-
tnnate enough to meet with those to
whom the scenes around me were fa-
niKar, and from whom I often learned
mnch indeed that was new and inter-
esting, I arose to resume my walk.
teoogly impressed by the venerable
' farm of the old peasant, as I deemed
lnm,and thus attracted, I joined him,
msking some casual remarks about
the a|^>earance of the country, which
cinly opened the way to conversation.
Knogh of years have passed since that
mtamn morning to have worn out
Aethen feeble thread of the old man's
Mbi hat palpable to my memoiy as
At reoollections of my wedding-day is
cveiy lineament of that expressive face.
I w again, as I write, the gentle
■Mac of- Us voice, his white hairs float
M»e me stirred by the morning
MSBtua breeze, and I greet again
^ expressive salutation, felt again
^Jnin unspoken, ** God save you

To an i^ inquiries touching the
*?*utiy round about, and the harvest,
™^ sU but gathered from the fields, he
"4^ in that simple yet lucid manner
^^^'iiniOD to the most uneducated Irish
P^Muitywhen he speaks of things fa-
™Ktrto him, chastened in his every re-
"{4 by expressions of his gratitude to
^ ht bounties received, and of his
f^liiDoe upon his wisdom and goodness
■affliction.

Hit calling, he told me, was a sad
^^ He, too, was a laborer in the

field, but the harvest he gathered was
moist with the tears of many. Death
himself was the reaper. He was the
village sexton.

I had often before met men of his
melancholy occupation, but the hearts
of these seemed to have been hardened
by the very nature of their handicraQ,
as they became familiarized with that
sorrow, bitterest to human nature — ^the
parting for ever in this world with the
truest and best beloved ; but in the good
old man beside me the keenest sympa-
thy fi)r his suffering fellow mortals
seemed to have found a meet and fit-
ting resting-place.

I learned from him that a few rods
further on my way stood the chapel
and burying-ground of Drurabhan,
where, for some fifty years back, he had
made the last dwelling-places of his
friends and neighbors. Five minutes'
walking brought us to the open gate
and to the pathway leading to the mod-
est village church, within whose sacred
walls a number of the villagers had
already gathered to early mass.

Guided by my new acquaintance, I
also entered, joining in the sacred cere-
mony, which began soon afterward.

How is it, I ask you who have ac-
companied me thus far, reader, how is
it — and the feeling is common to almost
all of us — that in such a simple edifice
as that I knelt in,i>aintles9 and unpic-
tured, unadorned by the bright con-
ceptions of genius or the cunning fin-
gers of art; with naked fioor and
whitewashed wall; window untinted
with Scripture stoiy, itself suggestive
of devotion ; no ornament save the sim-
ple embellishments of the altar; no
music save tlie solemn voice of the
priest, distinctly audible in the respect-
ful stillness of the place ; how is it, I
ask you, that in such a sanctuary our
souls seem 'to reach nearer to their God
in silent adoration, than wlien we kneel
on velvet cusliions in the temples of the
city, with their graven oak and marble
pillars, their lofty domes of painted
glass, their frescoes and their statuary,
their mighty organs and their hundred
choristers ?

796

The Tale of a Tombstone.

On leaving the church at the con-
clusion of the mass, I rejoined the
sexton, who had stopped a moment
at the porch for his spade, where he
had left it in an angle as we entered.
I followed him across the yard and
through the wicket which separated
UB from the burying-ground. CalUng
my attention to some of the more im-
posing monuments of the place, he
passed forward along the narrow path-
way to perform the melancholy task
which he had told me was his first
duty of this morning — to miike a
grave for the last, the very last, of
the companions of his boyhood ; one,
he said, whose death, like his life, was
all peace, and that was part of the re-
ward of the gentleness of his nature,
the fulness of which was hereaAer.

Passing from stone to stone, to lin-
ger for a moment at this which told
its tale of the early call of the young
and innocent, or at that which spoke
of many years and mayhap of many
sorrows, I stopped near to one which,
from the quaintnoss of the inscription
and chaste simplicity of its fonu had
a peculiar attraction for me. It was
a cross in granite with a wreath not
unskilfully ciiiselled crowning the up-
per Uiub, whilst along the extended
arms was a single line, " The Widow
and her Son/'

Leaning on a more aspiring tomb-
stone near, I read agam and ng:iin
these simple words, all the while im-
agination doing its work of making a
history for the mother and her child,
when from this my second reverie of
the morning. I was ng:iin aroused by
the voice of my aged friend.

'* I see you have been reading that
inscription, sir," he said. "T have,*'
I repheil, " and it has stirred my curi-
Oflity rather strangely. It seems to
me that there is much which the tomb-
stone does not tell.^

»• Very much indeed, sir,*' returned
the sexton ; ** look around me as I may
at these familiar forms, tiiere is not one
amon'iC^t them tells as sad a tale as iliis

one.'

**Your reply does not lessen my

curiosity," I said ; ''and even
the saddest of your sail ex]
and tlmt I did not fear to tn
much upon your feelings or j
I should ask you to tell me'
of those whose resting-plac
beautifully, yet strangely ma

** No trespass, sir, no tre?
old man replied. ** If the 5t<
to recall a scene which will
old eyes weep, it will just 1
one as suits my heart this
So having yet an hour to spi
the remains of my old friend
the ground, we shall sit dowr
grave here whilst I tell you
of Mary Donovan and her L

Glancing around to see tl
expected duty called him,
himself on the mound pro
sat down beside him, an eagi
to tliat which follows, given
words as near his own as mi
wanting in tliat richness of a
figurative expression |>eculi
class and to his country.

Ilad business cr i^leasu
you to Castlewellan some
ago, began the sexton, y
hanlly have failed to met-i
natured innocent,* some scv
eighteen years old, ever to b»
first at Blaney's when a trav
ed up his horse for refivsl
coach or car to set down or
a passenger. Ere the ratll<
or wheel had ceased in the
before the inn, the voice of
Donovan was sure to fall
stranger's ear in a greeting,
musical, and with tliat [K'cu
exprt?ssion which told the ^o
that he Avas one of those to ^
his own wise purjKtse iloubi
had been but sparing in the gil
And yet there was a child i-
ness in his every lo<ik and
comi)ensated in some measu
misfortune, evidence as it wa
was saveil fmni the cares ai
ties common even co tliose ot
years.

• Svn"nnii'rt^ with '* lilli>t*' ai:i -nr th
anirv" wiiou lur-i in tJ.int ».iy ; thty r^i
word idiot ualwi in tlwwiua.

The Tak of a TombtUme.

797

Ned loved the horses and the cars,
Rod knew every professional driver
ihat came that way to fair or market
for miles and mileft aronnd. He re-
•ervedy however, especial afiection for
the r^lar roadsters, man and beast ;
thoBe I mean that drove daily to
Bkney'a from Newry, Bathfriland, or
Dromore. The mcn^ well acquainted
with his ways, never spoke a hasty or
mkiiid word to him, althongh he was
oocasionally self-willed in the matter of
the hone-feed and the watering. The
hones naturally returned the affection
ef one whose attendance upon them
was untiring. He talked to them in-
eeisantly in public or in private ; their
eomfoit occupied the first pkce in his
thoui^t He curried, whisked them
down, patted and praised their best
ponits with all the enthusiasm of a
eoBnoisseur, or, when the like happen-
edyinoiimed over a broken knee or a
windgall as over some serious domes-
tio tnmble, as indeed to him it was.
AU this and more of the kind was
iooe without fee or reward, save the
privilege at all hours of the kitchen
infeide and the stables, with an occa-
■inial ride down to the river, ^ wid the
cmtmesfbr a drink,'' as he would say,
or ''to wash the mud from their legs,
vnd had scran to it"

Few days passed, however, failing
to bring lum a chance horse to hold
ftr a ibe gentleman ^ wid boots and
^«n bedady^'or when he had not an
gPmd to run or to lend a helping
'■Bd with the luggage of some gener-
^v tniveller; and with these oppor-
came sixpences, sometimes
I shillings, for his trouble, but of-
' irtiU just because he was Ned
•***Wtti. Many to whom his story
^1 mknown often wondered at the
eager eye with which he
earnings over, and at the
. . — I an additional sixpence seem-
^toglre him ; aU this was so unlike
°y fcouriy evidences of his most un-
J^wi natore. Strangers, less char-
■Uleia mind than in pm^et, led astray
v4iiieeoiiDgloveofmoney,notunfTe-
'; that much of the boj^s

idiocy was put on, and they said so ;
but they did not know him, nor hap-
pily he the meaning of their sneer.
It was amusing to follow him at the
lucky moment when he got a shil-
ling or so in this way, when he in-
variably made straight for tlie bar of
the inn to deposit it with the utmost
gravity of manner in the safe keeping
of good Mrs. Blaney. He had learnt
from bitter experience how unsafe it
was to be his own banker, as he had
frequently lost his earnings in the hay
loft or the stable, before the happy
thought had struck him to find a better
keeper for them. You would liave
bewi there, too, how he invariably
came at night to withdraw his funds,
and how he always had money given
him, more or less. For there Avere
unlucky days for Ned, when travellers
were few or forgetful ; but his memory
was far from faithM in this regard,
and good Mrs. Blaney was more than
kind.

The reason for thb seeming selfish*
ness of Ned is easily told, lie had a
mother whom he loved with all his
strange impassioned nature, a widowed
mother. To receive her gi'ateful smile
in return for the wages of his industry
each evening when he reached his home
was the crowning happiness of the day.
God was kindly with him — ^he was
not alone, poor boy I He had a mother,
and all that mother's love. Had you
travelled that way you must have no-
ticed their little cottage at the turning
going up the hill to St. Mary's. You
may see it even now as you pass, but
the roses Maiy trained there are dead
and gone, the little latticed window
broken, the garden weedy and desolate,
telling its tale of sorrow like the tomb-
stone.

Maiy Donovan had lived there for
many years^-since her boy was quite a
child. She came one morning, so the
gossips said, a passenger by the coach,
somewhere from the North. Her chUd
was then but four years old, and then,
as ever after, an object for the sympa*
thy of the kmd of heart She took
hamUe lodgings and applied to the

TfS

7%€ T^ efalimhiim^.

shopkeepers and the neighboring gen*
try for employment at her needle, with
which she wai wonderfully skilled, they
Baid. The prejudieea w hich met her at
the first, firom all save the kind landlady
of the " Stag,-* Boon gave way befoi-e
her patient, unbendmg uprightness of
eharacter and the unfathomable sorrow
that weighed lier down, for sorrow is a
eacred thing; even the voice of scandal
hushes in lis presence. Her past hi^
tory was her eecret. Whether it waa
one of shame or of suffering virtue no
tongue could tell. Silent as the grave
to all UTjperlinent inquiry, meek and
humble before her God, and gentle iw
gentleness itself with every living
thing, her mystery became respected^
and ahe and her boy beloved.

From that evcningj when wet and
weary Irom her journey, she first awoke
the kindly sympathies of the hostess
of the ^' Slag** — the same good-natured
Mrs. Blaney — ^for twelve long years the
widow pursued her jKjaceful way, earn-
ing for herself and for her cliild not
merely a livelihood, hut many of the
comforts of dress and ibod, which were
looked upon as luxnriea by those
around her; and never did mother re-
ceive more fulueas of reward in the
passionate love of ofispnng than she in
that of ber all but mindless boy.

Wlien he was yet a child often have
I watched him sitting at her feet,
as she sat at the cottage door or
window plying her eTer busy needle,
listening to tlie strange stories of the
fairies and tlie leprechauns of the olden
times she could tell so welL Of Heav-
en and its gloric'si, too; she would some-
times speak, to be interrupted by some
strange remark, 8ugge?ti ve of more than
human wisdom. Then the startled
mother would fix her eyes upon his face
so earnestly^ as if in hope that God
at last would shed light u|x>n the shad-
owed mind of her bereaved one, to meet
ever and always the glance of childish
adoraticfb, but with it, alas 1 the vacant
smile tliat spoke forgetfalneas already
of the transitory ray of reaaon that a
moment rested there.

Oi>en have I stopped, as I puMed

that way 9 to Usten to
ballad full of the mel
her voice, and make my frl
quines for herself and
find him in his usual resi
welcome was a warm one
my grey hairs — for Uiey
then, sir — often mingled wi
curls of ilje boy jis lie
my knee to k\MB me^ W{
friends, sir^ Mary and I,
only, of all living bemgs^
cret and the story ^f ber
ibis waa the way I leami
One day, soon after bbr
town, I had just riden from i
in the chapel aad turned
my momiqg rounds wheo
some OQO weeping bii
wail of a child accoxD]
attention to a comer
the kneeling figure of
that of a little boy, s<
long graae of the gmfn
Mourners were no nnfi
me, even at such an
the woman *s dress bc^^pok
and awoke my curiosity,
gmve and recH^msed it
good old inan^ once the
muster, who had died two
I knew him weU ; foe
had dwelt amongst
himself as for h^
been happy b tlia
cluld — a daughter, tlia
her mother, he used to aar^
had buried amoogit
was centred his
She was his pride,
the reward be sou^
with aU the petty
teacher. She foi
happy home, and 0ed
one whom she had
weeks only, who had
trevor, where her '
ence had seal her for
Book all for a hi
lover — whoy wtdlfi
beauty, seomed her
The old man never
again in tlie iritlagtu
sorrow^ luid the grave

The Tale of a Tombitone.

799

I made it The savings of his indus^
trioiia life still lay in the hands of the
Fillage pastor in safe-keeping for the
lost ooe should she ever return to claim
it ; bat Mary never claimed it.

I drew Jiearer, for my heart told me
wlio the mourner was. I, too, had
lored the girl, as who indeed had not ?
. I, too, had shared the sorrow of her
iKmest fiather, and many a time had
yaurned to know the late of the fair-
kaiied daughter of his affection.

I drew still nearer; my step was

BffiaAlAQa upon the grass. I leaned

vpoD a headstone near me. I spoke

Oe words that pressed for utterance,

*<Mary9 Mary," I said, "You come

loo late, too late!"

She started from the grave ; an ex-

i of teiTor and surprise broke

i her. She looked me wildly in the

I if the spuit of her injured father

i in shape before her, and recogniz-

iDg the sad features of that fathcr*s

ftknd, she sank, sobbing convulsively,

npoa the grave again, hiding her pale

lue in the long gr^iss which covered it.

I nised her kindly in my arms, and

Adng down beside her, her wondering

vet gentle boy between -my knees, I

■Biid her sad tale of passion and

wnone. No other ever heard that

itHT; she asked my silence and I

■poke not

From that time forward, year after
^JVtf* ^ penitent paid frequent visits
^ her lather's grave ; her gentle man-
Mr Mked for no inquiry, and none was
^^^^ and there was nothing left of
Ao ooee joyous daughter of the school-
yter to challenge recognition. jThe
yitoo^ seemed to love the place, and
•"whiles accompanied her. For her
■•*« it was he loved it, seeming to

•Jp**"*^ *^** ^®^ *^®^ ^*** some-
n's iharing with him her affection,
. •^ fink which bound them both to
"•Alee for ever.

WeH Team passed on, and, as I
^4 laid, the voice of scandal had
">>K ben hnahed; the child had al-
*^ieached to inanhood,and the silver
^BBids of time and sorrow had stolen
Q iBQiifl^ the once golden locks of the

mother. Childlike ever, and uniformly
good and cheerful, Ned rose each morn-
ing, and as it had been for some years,
the daylight was not more certain to en-
ter the pleasant bar-room of the " Stag'*
than was the sliadowofthe innocent to
fall across its threshold, its earliest vis-
itor. Evening brought him home with
his caresses, his childish chat, and his
petty eammgs to his mother, who, happy
at the pleasure his employment gave
him, was profuse in the praises that he
loved to hear.

And so matters had gone on for
years, just as if they might have done
so for ever, when God in his wisdom
brought that sore affliction upon us all
— the famine and the sickness of '47.
Who that has lived through that year of
misery and hoiTor, but shudders at the
remembrances its very name recalls ?
Who but wails some beloved one
snatched away with scarce a moment's
warning? — ^the child from its mothers
arms; the mother from the child*d
caresses ; the youth standing full of
hope on the threshold of his manhood,
when the warm blood froze suddenly
in his veins, the glad visions of his
future faded before him as the relent-
less hand of death seized him with a
grasp of iron, leaving him upon the
earth but one hour of agony, and the
breath to say farewell ; the aged flung
into the grave upon whose brink they
had, trembling, stood for years clinging
to life with more than the tenacity of
the young ; — all, all stricken with that
horror of dissolution ; bowed down as
if a curse had fallen upon us for our
sins as once came the plague upon the
Egyptians.

' First amongst the victims was the
long-tried, patient Mary. With suffi-
cient warning only to bring the good
priest to her side, to receive the last
rites of her faith, to press in her enfee-
bled arms her terror-stricken son, and
upon his lips one agonizing kiss — and
her soul was with its God.

The agony of the boy when once he
realized the great grief that had fallen
upon him was, they told me, so fearful
and 60 wild as to wring with horror the

The Tale of a Tombttane.

801

3 be made for the disposal
and for the future of poor
jra went to their homes.
wa of the night came down,
he cottage all was silent,
an crept toward the boy
from his lethargy, and to
ake some food which she
for him. He was asleep,
d for this, his greatest gift
ag heart, the old woman sat
>vering her shoulders with
zed away an hour or two,
and watched, then slept
awoke to find the idiot
len slept again,
our af^er sunrise she start-
jeat, alarmed by an outcry
her name being loudly
Grod's name, what's the
»'s dead now ? is it the
J"

the Lord be betune us an
a voice from amongst a
cited people at the door,
ren't raised poor Mary's
night ! Here's Brian an'
the empty grave as we
Q chapel yaurd just now.
vas such a thing as that
)f before in Castlewellan

whisht, for the love av
le old woman, "or Ned
," and turning toward the
ig that he still slept quietly,
his vacant seat — ^the boy

t all, I know it all," she
sure as God's in heaven

gone and raised her up
card him in his sleep, the

thought nothing of his
Ik. Go after him, men!
n, I say ! He has gone
rumbhan."

led off with many others
card this extraordinary
' ran eagerly down the hill
llage here^ You know the
'be? . Two long miles at
, when they had reached
a mile of this spot, sure

VOL. 17. 61

enough, God knows, they overtook the
crazy boy, wheeling before him on a
barrow the coffin containing the dead
body of his mother.

Never did human eye see sight like
this before. He heard their hurried
footsteps coming on behind him, and
setting down the barrow gently on the
road,vhe turned suddenly upon them
with all the frenzy of the fiercest mad-
ness in his face, and raising up the
spade that lay beside the coffin, and
brandishing it above his head, he cried,
" Back, back, I tell you all ; touch her
one of you, and I'll cleave him ! Didn't
I tell you to bring her to Drumbhan ?
Didn't I tell you she wanted to sleep
down here beside her father? You
thought that you were good, did you,
and Father Connor, too, to put her up
in the hill beside the big church there r
But what did you know ? what did you
know? Did she tell any of you last
night that she couldn't rest there ; did
she do that, I say ? No, no, she came
to me who loved her, to her own poor
Ned — she came and asked me to bring
her to Drumbhan ; and so I will — so I
will, I sav, in spite of you all ! in spile
of you all r

So saying, he raised the barrow once
again and passed onward with his bur-
den. They spoke not. They made no
effi)rt to turn him from his purpose.
Many there were who would gladly
have eased the exhausted creature of his
burden, but, ^awe-stricken, they feared
to approach him, and silently fell be-
hind a second time in sad procession at
the widow's funeraL

At last he reached the gate there.
I was standing at' it when he came.
He wheeled his burden along that path
behind us, and to the grave here. 1
followed with the rest, as powerless to
interfere as they. He laid down the
barrow gently again, and taking up the
spade he had carried with him, begaa
to dig the grave. I joined him. He
looked at me at first inquiringly ; then
recogmzing me, muttered something to
himself as if approvingly. Other hands
besides ours were soon at work, and a

802

1%$ Tab of a Tamkttone.

few minutes moro found Marj reBtiny;
by her father^s side and Jhe hat Bod
carefully replaced — ^when, failing only
when his tajk was done, the worn-out
boy sank aenselcBS upon the grave.

They carried him away gently, and
when consciouflncss returned, they
soothed him with kind words. The
women blessed him and praised hh
mother, and his love for her, till recol-
lection returned, and tears for his loss
stole silently down the idiot's cheeks.
All traces of passion had disappeared,
and in its phice there seemed the evi-
dence of a new-bom intelligence in the
route yet expressive sorrow of that pale
fiice.

He went with them without a mur-
mur; .several times turned hastily
whilst in sight of the graveyard to look
back, then disappeared.

All that day the picture of that \yooT
creature and the scene in which lie
played so strange a part, haunted me
at every step. Still I saw him coming
as he did that morning down the hill ;
the barrow, the coffin, the crowd walk-
ing solenmly afler. StiU I saw it through
that long, long day, and leave my fancy
it would noL That night I could not
rest True, I had loved poor Mary and
I had loved her boy ; still 1 hud laid
away in their narrow beds many, very
many that were dear to me, linked to my
affection by the closest tics of kindred,
but I had never sorrowed, old man
as I was, as I had done that day ; never
felt such awe at the untold mystery of
our nature and the wonderful ways of
my Grod.

In the morning I arose early, ear-
ly for me, and although no duty called
me here till atler early prayers, I took
my spade upon my shoulder and came

upon my way, feeling drawn
the place, I knew not why.

The morning wait as beaut ifi
one, and, as I think I have sai<
the season of the year the i^am
ready here and there I noticed,:
along, familiar faces in the fi<
some, too. of my ncisrhboRs I r
the road ; but contrary to i
custom I avoided the familiar cl
quently indulged in when we i
other at such an early hour, pa
with a •* good -morrow" only,
reach Drumbhan.

Some twenty minutes bro
to the chapel, lor I lived tht-n
now, a short mile Ix'low there,
in to say a prayer, consriou
weakness, in the hope to s\
weight from off my slinuld
pressed me down so heavily,
passing into the graveyard
turned my eyes in this din.*cti
hold, prostrate upon the ;rniv
mother, the loving, harmless 1
My knees trembled ns wii
I low came he here ? I said, an
Why, I asked not ; I knew tix
tliis love that was more than
Tottering, I drew near; 1 i*:!
by liis name. He an<wr
I called again. No voire n*|»l
sound, nor motion wa?* tli<T^
echo of my voice jiiid my Inin
fall as I nearcd the s|)ot. I
I raised him in my arms. I |iai
his brow the long hair damp
dew of morning. 1 gaz'^l u
pale, pale face, whii-h, in tlif h(
that n*8tcd there, s|>oke of ll«* j
and the mer.^y of our lloavfnh
into whose lii»ly ke«*ping thi*
soul had passed. He w:i4 t\v,
The sexton's tale was toIJ.

804

Medianai Boott and Htpnn

From Th« Dublia UikiTersitj Mogaxlno.

MEDLEVAL BOOKS AND HYMNS.*

The fall of Rome was the annihi-
lation of a great dominant power, a
power which had heen supreme ; and
when the barbarians marched into her
streets and devastated her homes, the
world sunk back into a tencbroas
night of social, intellectual, and
moral darkness. Her mighty em-
pire, held together like one country
by her genius, was broken up and
divided amongst the different tribes
who had poured down from the north
and overrun Europe, divided just as
the fortune of war or the caprice of
choice indicated. It was the approach
of a moral chaos ; but the hand whose
guidance is to be felt in the life of in-
dividuals, and may be traced in the his-
tory of nations, did not abandon the
world to the utter confusion of its own
impulses. As the imperial power of
' Rome fell a way and died out like an
effete thing, wasted by its own corrup-
tion, a new power was springing up
in vigorous youth by the side of that
which was declining.' Christianity
was advancing toward the west with
rapid strides, victorious through the
persecution of tyranny and the jeal-
ousy of philosophy ; it was then
taking its stand in the world as an
influence ; but if at this moment amid
the vast changes and subvention of
things which took place after the fall
of Rome, Christianity had been merely
a reformed philosophy, and had been .
left to the mercy of pagan barbarians,
it would have been extinguished in
its infancy. That was avoided by a
remarkable concatenation of circum-
stances. For cen tu ries the re had been
an apprehension in the Roman em-
pire of an advance of the barbarous

• T%t reader will bear Id mind thut Uie anUor of
Ikt fDUovloK pi^cr b a Frouitaot mlnUtcr.— En.
(UiB. WoauDi.

nations in the north of Europ
toms of which had nianifestc
selves in the earliest period
Christian era. Toward th
end of the second century t
powerful of these tribes the
impelled by some influx of ot
barians, advanced from their
near the mouth of tho Vi^<tula,
the Roman frontier, and tool
where they were found by i
peror Canicalla at the ope
the third oentur}-, in the m
which they were allowed by .
to settle along the banks of i
ine, when they were divided
parts — the '*Ostro'' or East<
the " Visi " or Western Goilis.
next century a terrible alarm y
ed amongst them, which even ]
ed into the Roman oniitiiv, ai
its capital, when^ it was rela
an awful race of beings— sava
inhuman, begotten of tho dov
pouring in thousands out of
erts and plains of Asia into
Such were the Huns. Alroj
had reache<l the territory of
trogotlis, whom they eoiniH>lle(
ply them witli guides to lead
towanl the Visigoths. Tiie
at their approach fled in the e
of terror toward the Danube,
plored the protection o^ Val
emperor, who allowed them
in Mcosia, upon the condition I
should defend the ini{>crial
In less than forty years a
from defending the I^man
they sacked Rome. But dui
interval an incident touk plai
had a great influence u{ion
tinies of Christianity. At\er
tlement with Valens, iin int<
of a somewhat friendly c
sprang np between the Ronu

806

Mtdicecal Boohs and Hjfmm,

syllable would have reached us of the
thought, the life, or the events of that
period.

From the fourth to the seventh cen-
tury there would have been an im-
penetrable gap in the annals of hu-
loanity — the voice of history would
have been hushed into a dead silence,
and the light of the past which bea-
cons the future would have been ex-
tinguished in the darkness of a uni-
versal chaos. In England, however,
the case was somewhat different.
From the earliest period of the Saxon
domination there was a struggle for
a literature in the vulgar tongue.
The Saxons had brought witli them
a vast store of traditional poetry out
of which one specimen lias been pre-
served, consisting of an epic poem in
fortjF-thrcc cantos, and about 6,000
lines — the oldest epic of modern times.
It is called, " The Gleeman's Song,"
and was composed by Beowulf in their
native wilds and brought over with
them in the fitlb century. It is a
strange poem, impregnated with the
vigorous air of the North ; strength
and simplicity being its chief charac-
teristics. The principal personage is
Ilrothgor the king, and the poem is
full of incidental descriptions of man-
ners and customs which aUorward
became native to England, and linger
about among us even now : there
are great hails, ale-carou.sal.<4, fighting
with giants, the elements of a rude
chivalry, and an invincible prowess
which dares both dragons and ghosts.
But the first native writer in Anglo-
Saxon after the conversion to Christ-
ianity is CoBdmon, who lived in the
latter part of the seventh century (GdO).
The story of his miraculous in.spi ra-
tion is recorded by Bede.* He wjw
bom in Northumbria and was a monk
of Whitby. He paraphrased large
portions of the Scripture, and has
aptly been called the Anglo-Saxon
Milton ; indeed it is more than prob-
able that the Puritan poet borrowed
the ideas of his sublime soliloquy of

Satan in Pandemonium
Saxon monk; After Sa
throw, Oedmon says* —

•* Then Bp»kc be wonle :

Thii narrow plan* U mMt qnlH
that otiier that wtt fi'minrly knc
hiyh In HcarcD's klrigdom,
which my raaiiter lie^towM nn r
Though we it for th« All-powerl
may nut p«)»««»#.
M'e must cede our realm."

So Milton —

**0 how unlik« the place frora wbea<

and in the words of Satan—

" Is thil the reRlDn. thU the ^'ll. tli«
That we mu:{t change fur Iioare.'i,

|{lo<)ni
For that citl«^tl.il li)!ht * Ik< It 40, i
Who now i<t Siivran rtxn ili5pjv4 aai
What «hall be rl^hL*'

Csedmon's notion of Pan
is the prototype of Milton :

"' But around me lie
Iron hond<* ;

frcsMrth fliU r-)rd of cbali
am |Kiwt'rli-Hd !
me have m hard
the rla-tp^ i»f hi>il
pu firmly );ni4|i.>L
Here li a la-l hre
abi>ve and uud'^inoii^ ;
never ilM I fi?*; al-KU'iiler
the flunif ah:it«th ii>jI
hot over hell.
Blehath Iht: cli«piri; itfti.
thi^ h:in1 |Hi]|>!ii- i isi::J,
Impfnleii ill my r 'Mi*...
dt'barri.'d nj»' Ir- r.i luy waj
My feet an- f^'iir..r,
my hanils arc Mi.ui.i>:]cd

Ah->ut mtr lie
h«iRf j-nriiij;*
of hiinl ImM,
fiir^i-1 niiii h.Mt,
wi;ii wlid'h nil- liml
hath fasten >d tiy thv nci '.

Nearly all these i'lra.s ar
rated in Milton*s sublime pii;

To b-itiomlo^i p«»nllti.»ri. V.-r-- '.i .]f
In adamaiiliiit: «-h.u:i« :i::i }K;).ii t.r

"Sooitthiiu yon dixiry pi lin, f.-r: ri

" A d'lnsi-iin horrlM.'. r.n .ill ^i W* r ti
As one great furiii..>.-, U uji-.-i/'

** . . . t^rtiff wi!hi-u

fiiiW uri:***, and a fi' TV il> 'mr. .•.•.!
Willi viiT bariii: ^ »u:p..^r un^: iii*i.

But aft4»r the d«\'xth of
(G80), there must have bt»ei
deal of ixK*:ry wriitcn wliu
lost, for we read that Bedi

• led. lUrt., Ub. Iy., e. 24.

* Thorpc*f edilloa of Cae4iu«

Mfdictval Booh and IfymiM.

807

repeated several passages
nal poets, one of which is
in that interesting descrtp-
3 last moments of the great
written bj S. Cuthbert,
rith him to the end.^ But
Irous poetrj of tradition
to that of religion, which
uracteristic of Saxon song
xth century.
s also told that Aldhelm,

Sherboume, who died in
709, was one of the best
is day. But still at this
lough there was a struggle
tional literature, the great
3 all written in Latin ; and
li as he admired the Saxon
his country, intrusted his
:;al History to the only
^ to learning. Gildas and
vho preceded Bede, also
atin. "But the Saxons were
It of all the barbarians to
vernacular litemlure. Of
ire we are scarcely compe-
(Igc ; but from what has
I to us, from allusions in
)m the state of education
em, we may safely con-

although little has sur-
ras not a poor literature.

remember the continual

devastation which took
g the period of their domi-
lun monasteries were rifled,
nt, and manuscripts wan-
oyed. From the time of
Y one Anglo-Saxon writer
isequence Ims come down
c ; but from what we know
rogrcss we may be assured

many others. It is evi-

the state of education
m. Before the middle of

century schools had sprung
rard the latter end an im-
given to learning by the
Theodore and Adrian, of
3 asserts that they gathered

crowd of disciples, and
m not only the books of

Holy Writ, bnt the arts of ecclesiasti-
cal poetry, astronomy, and arithmetic,
and adds in proof that some of their
scholars were alive in his day who
were as well versed in the. Greek and
Latin tongaes as their own.* Even
the ladies among the Saxons were
well educated, for it was to them, that
Aldhelm . addressed his work De
Laude Yirginitatis, and Boniface
corresponded with ladies in Latin.
In the ninth centnry also we find that
schools were flourishing in various
parts of the kingdom, especially the
one at York, under Archbishop £g*
bert, who taught Greek, Latin, and
Hebrew to the scholars, amongst
whom was Alcuin the friend of
Charlemagne. From the letters of
Alcnin, but more especially froth his
History of the Church of York, we may
learn that for the same there was a re-
nowned library there, and as it is the
earliest list of books — the first cata-
logue of an English library extant — we
may as well subjoin it Alcuin says
that in his/ library were the works
of Jerome, Hilarins, Ambrose, Au-
pistine, Athanasius, Gregory, Pope
Leo, Basil, Chrysostom, 'and others.
Bede and Aldhelm, the native authors,
of course were there. In history and
philosophy there were Orosins, Boe-
thius, Pompeius, Plin/f Aristotle, and
Cicero. In poetry, Sedulius Jnveu-
cus. Prosper, Arator, Paulinus, For-
tunatus, Lactantius ; and of the clas-
sics, Virgil, Statins, and Lucan. Of
grammarians there was a great num-
ber, such as ProbuS) Phocas, Donatus,
Pnscian, Servins, Eutychius, and
Commianus. Boniface was a great
book collector, and used to send them
home to England. So that we may
fairly conclude that if the Danish dep-
redations and the internal dissensions
of the country had not been so fatal to
the treasures hoarded up in monastic
libraries we should have had much
more of Saxon literature. The infiu*
ence of Danstan, too, gave an impulse
to learning both in the country gener-

iutles (Qale'f Collee.) ana. : JSU

■ocLHUt Ub^WMe.91

■I

\ii

■'J

' QQ? •' MedicBval Booh$ and Hymtu.

'• -aU^^d in .ihe church. He himself
vas a Scholar, a roualcian, an artist, an
illuminator, and a man of science;*
but the most prominent figure 13 Bede,
who, as we observed, wrote in Latin ;
he was well versed in Greek and He-
brew. He wrote many works — thirty-
seven according to his own list, includ-
ing compilations ; but the most import-
ant was his Ecclesiastical History,
which traces the course of the national
church from the earliest times down
to 731, within four years of his own
death. In his introduction he honestly
^ves us a list of his materials, from
which we can gather that in all parts
of the country the bishops and abbots
had instinctively turned their attention
to historical writing ; for he says he
was indebted to Albinus, abbot of St.
Augustine's, Canterbury, for the partic-
ulars of the Augustinian mission and
the history of the Kentish (/hurch
generally, and to No rt helm, a priest of
London, who had discovered at Rome
the epistles of Pope Gregory upon the
subject; from Daniel, bishop of the
West Saxons, he received much assii^t-
ance as fo the Iiislory of that pmvince
and the adjoining. Abbot Ksius, of
East Anglin, and Cunebert, of Lind-
Bey, are also mention eil as contributing
vahiable materials. So that this Iiis-
tory of Bede is compilod from the most
authentic sources, and forms one of the
most valuable collections of ecclesiasti-
cal annals extant in any nation. It
is a fact worthy of note in the history
of letters, that these early pn^latcs of
the Saxon Church, and in fact the
monks in the various monasteries scat-
tered over the country from the earli-
est period, and eveii down to their de-
cadence, silently and patiently reconled
the events of their limes and of their
church, and that their labors, such as
Lave been rescued from the ravages of
the |ui8t, form the only true " materia
historica" of modem writers. But we
pass on from the time of Bede to that
of Alfred, under whose influenee the

• " Ariem srriben'H iiecnc cUliarlwinill iiaritcrqno
VlnKeDill pcrltUiiii ilUli;viitcr excjluit.^Cultuu MS:?.

— ciBoi».,bxm.,foi.<».

Saxon language almof
use of the Latin. Th
vicissitudes of his life
where recorded, but
was an historian, a th<
mentator, and a transcr
cipal works wcix» trans'
ory's Pastoral Care,
History of Orosius, Bi
lations of Philosophy,
astical History*, and sev
Bible ; but he not onh
interpolated whole pap
In the Pastoral Care I
original prayers; in 1
Orosius tliere is a sket
of Germany by him, ai
tion of Boethius is less
found and pointed tl
fairly entitle him to the
opher. The greatest
King Alfred was perha
and restarting the Sn
It is probable that frr
times of the Saxon 1
record of events had \y
where, either fmm tfie
servation or by cniioort.
of Bede proves that it '
church as regards <hc
tors, and wt» know thai
Alfred IIhto was a slior
events, with now and tl
treasured up and han<
a;jjo to age. It was h
care to refonn these, r
start the Chionieh* as :
arehive. For this pur
ed Plegmiind, Arehl)is
bury, to eollect what \
wrilu it out fairly, an«l
labors as the L-hroniolei
From that time the ns
and more in derail, an
year 1 l.Vt it was kept
men in ditferont niona>t
eye -witnesses of tlie t
eon led, and out of who
are only six original ?
this great nMtional worl
called tlu' Piegmun.l, i
Invaiise it was a^ we I
piled by Ple;:miind a I
of Alfred, and id pres<

JhdicBval Booh and Bymn$.

Christi) College, Cambridge.
i year 891 it is written in dif-
lods and by different people
the year 1070, The second
I the Cottonian Collection at
>h Museum (Tiberius, A vi.),
pparentiy by one hand, which
attributed to Dunstan, and it
js at the year 977, eleven
ifore his death. The third
1 the same collection (Cotton

B L), and is thought to have
tten in the monastery of Ab-

it reaches down to 1066.
th copy is also in the Cotton-
lion (Tiberius, B iv.), written
ent men down to the year
The fiflh manuscript is in the

library at Oxford (Laud, E

1 internal evidence, written in
1122, compiled from' older

, and carried down in differ-

3 to the ]^ear 1154, showing

lal degeneracy of the Saxon

under Norman influence,

2 to the end. The sixth and
iscript is in the Cottonian li-
'omitian, A yiii.). It has been
d to a Canterbury monk ; it
n in Latin and Saxon, and
}s in 1058. Besides these six,
' MS. is mentioned as of great
ing a transcription of a Cot-
;S., which perished in a fire
9 yard in 1731. It is in the
library (E, 5-15), and was
by Lombard in 1863-64.*
any country in Europe \H)8-

ich an historical treasure as
uthenticand so characteristic
ery interesting study to note
' peculiarities ; there are sad
ts records, as though the sor-
he land was too great to be
, and the hand had failed;
-c songs of triumph at the
»f the enemy, and pathetic
ions over desolated homes ;

3 noble panegyrics. upon men
;d memory, who had fought up
for their church and country,

lore detailed ancoont of these MS& lee
tSoha's edition of the TraoBUtlon of B«de
Chronicle.

and words of bitter Vwi^'f^^
cowards, and proflig^ni»4«i£
pious reflections, ejaculations, and as-
pirations ; it is a most vivid picture of
the manners, the thoughts, the joys,
the sorrows of the most interesting and
important period in the history of onr
country, as though the life itself, with
its characters and incidents, were made
to pass before our eyes in a rapid

panorama.

Such was the result of one of Al-
fred's many plans for the good of his
kingdom. His own diligence as a
writer and translator told vitally upon
the language, theff i^pidly improving.
Latin manuscripts had for some time
prerionsly been interlined with Anglo-
Saxon ** glosses'' — tha^ is, interpi*eta-
tions of Latin words and passages in
Anglo-Saxon — and this gradually led
to the complete transcription of Latin
MSS. into Anglo-Saxon, and the writ-
ing of original matter in the vernacular
tongue.*

Although only one writer of any
consequence has been handed down
to us from the time of Alfred, yet we
may fairly infer that many others lived
and wrote, whose works were destroy-
ed in the ravages made by the Danes
from that rime to the Norman conquest,
and afterward when Norman monks
looked with contempt upon Saxon
MSS., and used them for other pur-
poses, such as binding or transcri])tion
after erasure. The Latin then once
more became the language of literature
in this country. Still the Saxon lived,
and would not be trampled out by the
Normans, though it degenerated sadly
until, in the fourteenth century, an
idiom sprung up by a mingling of the
two, which has been called Semi-
Saxon. Out of this came the early
English, from which, after an addi-
tional Saxon infusion from Puritan
times, came the idiom we now use,
whose strong Saxon basis bids fair to
make it live through all time, and is

• A specimen of this Interlinear translation mar
be seen In the Cottonian collection— Venpasian, A I.
—a Psalter written in the year 1000, in Latin capitals,
with an Anglo-Saxon interpretation between the lines.

810

MedUxval Books and Hymm,

spreuding it in every qaartcr of the
world.

It will be interesting to note at this
point that two men managed to pre-
8er\'e a great deal of literary matter
out of the gross Vandalism which was
rife, Archbishop Parker and Sir Rob-
ert Cotton. Parker's collection is in
Corpus Christi College, Cambridge,
and those of Cotton in the British
Museum, the pn*sont reference to
whidi, under the titles of Roman em-
perors, arose from the circumstance
that in his own library they were ar-
ranged on shelves, over each of which
was a buf>t of one of the Roman cm*
perors. In this way, and by the dili-
gence of these two men, many valu-
able MSS. were njscued which had
passed into the hands of private indi-
viduals and booksellers.

All hopes of a national vernacular
litem tun* were, however, fmst rated
by the advent of the Normans. CVin-
turies before, the French had ceased
to sing tlieir moiimful litany, " A funire
^onnannoruni libeni nos Dominc," and
had found it advisable to give theite
troublesome stran;»i'rs a settlement.
Here tht-y had multiplied and thriv-
en until the middle of the eleventh
century, whfn they were the most
promising people in Eumi>e. Tlirre
are tniils in the Nonnan charai^ter not
unlike the Uoinan. Th<' Gothic tribes
genera lly adopted the langua«/e ami,
to a reitnin extent, the customs of the
couiitiM's they conquenMl ; but the
Nonnaii-, like thn Romans, always
endcjivonil to pnit^ their own lan-
gua^ ' airl customs upon their vnn-
quisheil. A? soon, thnrforo, as Wil-
liam \\\v\ made his tenure sure in
Kn^rlaii'l, he began the work of Saxon
extermimitioii by ordering that the
elements of ^rrammar slu*uld be
taug'it iu th(? French language, that
the S.ixoii ealigraphy should be aban-
doned, ami all (hnds, ]deadiiigs in
conns, and l:i\vs should be in French.
Sax »n li.en t-unk into eonteinpt, and
thrw* of the old race uho were m(»re
|K)lilic than patriotic K<'t to work vig-
oiuurly to acquire the elements of

the favorite tongue. Then also tl
custom of writing books in Latin wi
revived, and continued, as regaids i
important works, down to the sixteen
century ; for although books we
written in English before tliat tin
the language was in a very era
state ; for as in Gcrmanj and otiM
countries, so in England, the erei
which first fixed the language was tK
translation of the Bible intx) the rt
nacular; the book, whicJi everybod
read, soon became an authority, an
was appealed to on points of langasgi
Still the influence of the Nonnonswi
beneficial, both upon the mannen n
the literature of the country. Tb
^ Saxons, with nil their greatnes.«, wer
not a very refined pcc»plc ; they wfr
given to carousals of which we «
scarcely form any conception, thri
diet was coarse, and their manner
uni>oIished ; but the Normanii, if w
more simple in their habits, were moi
refined. Norman pxtravaganoe foan
vent, not in drunken orgies and no
ous feasting, but iu fine buiUin*
horses, trappings, and dress.* Tl
imfK)rtation of provincial poetr>* in tl
sliajH; of Trouvere poems, romanw
and thbliaux, had a refining cflToct up(
the literature, and laid the frundatic
of pjuglish chivalry. But the mo
iK'neficial effect Wiis the intn>«liirti'
of two or three m:isier spirits into rl
country, whose friendship William Iu
formerly cultivated. Of the two ma
inip<»rtant we will give a rapid skctd
In the early morning of a day in tli
first quarter of the eleventh c**ntnr
a poor young ocholar walked throo;!
the gates of Pa via, staff in hand, iiii
the open country, and made his *Mr
way across the Alps. He was btsiv;
in heart and light in purse ; he h*
lost his luirents. and hod left his nativi
city to seek the sennly livelihood of «
vagniiit scholar, and yet bound up i»
that ragged form, as it were in an un-
develoiMHl germ, were wealth. po»pr
and influence ; he was making hiJ «^t

• Thrrv \* % wry p'Kvl r«-iii(>arlMvi uF f* mW**'
i'f thr tworii-rn drmmi by WiK^Aiu of H^lmffk^
ill \i\* ticxta Kr^'Uii) ; ami. beinf rrlrttrU l« ^^
he I* likely to luivrgtveu a lair c»iIumU.

MMxwd Booh and £fymni.

8tl

!• he knew, to some of those

sphools of disputation which
nog up, where a poor scholar
irits had been sharpened by
(are, might, by a happy soph-
a crashing conclosion, earn a
1 refreshment for the night;
was in reality making his way
S distinction, and wealth, to a
'or's court, and to the episcopal
of Canterbury. This ragged

who thus left his native city,
nfranc, a name familiar to Eng-
I and ever memorable in English
For some years he led this
: life, travelling from place
oe, disputing and studying,
e once more returned to Pavia
iblished himself as a pleader,
^uence soon brought fame and
mce ; but urged by some hid-
Hilse, he threw up the prospects

him ; once more left the city,
e more took his way across the
id settled at Avranches in Nor-

where many schools were es-
d. He soon found disciples ;
: secret yearning of bis heart
ed itself — the monastery of
kS not far distant, and to it he
I steps, hoping to find that peace
be cloister alone could afford,
was not allowed to remain in
ty, his scholars and others, at-
by his fame, crowded around
eked to his lectured, and the
of Bea became so renowned
I attention of the young Duke
mandy, who also had in him
m of a glorious career, was at-
to this rising dialectician, and
I the medium of intellectual in-
Be a friendship was engendered
procured for the conqueror of •
d a wise and trusty adviser,
ved the way to fortune for the
odent. The remainder of his
may be summed up in a few

William* had just founded a
lonastery at Caen, and over
laced his friend as abbot But

the twenty years which had
. between the time of his set«
; at Bca and his elevation to

the abbacy of Caen, the school he had
founded had become most renowned,
and some of the great men of after
tunes boasted of having sat there at
Lanfranc's feet Among these were
Bishops Guimond, Ives, and another
Archbishop of Canterbury, Anselm.
On one occasion after the elevation of
Lanfranc to the primacy of England,
he was obliged to visit Rome and have
an audience of Pope Alexander II.,
who paid him such marked respect
that the courtiers asked the reason,
and the Pope replied, << It is not be-
cause he is primate of England that
I rose to meet him, but because I was'
his pupil at Bea, and there sat at his
feet to listen to his instruction."

While at Caen, however, he entered
into the renowned controversy with
Berenger upon the doctrine of the real
presence in the Eucharist, Berenger
admitting the fact but denying the
change of substance. The results of
this controversy, however, were anti-
cipated by neither party. It led to a
thorough change in the mode of inves-
tigation of truth, more especially o*
divine truth. Berenger had adopted
the course of arguing the point upon
the grounds of pure reason, a course
not unfamiliar to an expert dialectician
like Lanfranc, but utterly novel in
theological disputation, where authority
was omnipotent. Lanfranc himself
says of his opponent that he desired
^'relictis sacris auctoritatibus ad dia-
lecticam confugium facere." But like
a true athlete, he meets his adversary
with his own weapons, and for the first
time in Europe men beheld a vital
theological dogma being discussed by
champions who had agreed to throw
aside all the weight of authority and
rely upon the strengtii of their own
logic This was the first signal for the
union of scholasticisnx with theology,
which prevailed in Europe for centu-
ries, tingeing even the writings of the
early refoiiners. What LanfVanc ha'l
done in the pressure of controversy,
Anselm took up with all the ardor of
a convert; and the change which
passed over the thought of Euroipo

812

Mediaeval Books and Bynrnt.

amounted to a sort of intellectual rev-
olution. But to return to the fortunes
of Lanfranc ; — soon after William had
been consecrated he relumed to Nor-
mandy, taking with him Stigand, the
Archbishop, of Canterbury, whose de-
position he ultimately procured, when
he immediately installed his friend and
adviser, Lanfranc, into the see of Can-
terbury. At first, hoiVever, Lanfranc
declined the post, upon tho grounds
that ho did not know the language ;
but his objection was overruled, and
in the ye'ar 1070 he was consecrated
and took up his residence in England.
To him at Bea succeeded as teaclier
Anselm, who made great advances in
the scholastic mode of teaching. lie
was also prior of the monastery, and
during this period lie wrote six treatises
— on the Fall of Satan, on Truth, on
Original Sin, on the Reason why God
created Man, the Lihcriy of the AVill,
and the Consistency of Freedom with the
Divine Prescience. These great qucs-
ti'>ns were then uppermost in men's
minds, and they were treated by An-
selm in the new and more attmctivc
mode of a[)peal to pure reason. Whilst
in the midst of thes(^ studies he was
appointed abbot of liis monastery,
wliicli he rrlnctanily accepted, and in
the year 1093, fit'tei-n years atlerwtrd,
four years after the di'ath of Lanfranc,
he was api)ointed by William II. to the
arehbishoi)ric of Canterbury. His re-
lations wili» the king were not happy;
he opposed that obstinate and rapacious
monarch, and a series of misunder-
standings ensued, whieii led liim to re-
tire to liome to consult with the Pope.
During his absenec he wrote that book
by which he is most known, Cur
l)(»us Homo. AVhy God was made
Man. He wUo t(K>k a prominent part
in the Council of Bari, in 10i)H, where
he procuird the decision agjiinst the
(J reek delegates, upon the question of
the Processiou of the Holy Ghost.
I'pon tii<> d«»ath of William he return-
ed ; but the rest of his life was oc-
cupied in continual disputes on points
of pnviU-;re wiiii the king, Henry, and
he died in the year HOD.

But we will DOW advance to the
sidcration of that [O'eat change «
came over the thought of Europe,
bears the name of scholasticism,
controversy of Lanfranc whh Bere
on the doctrine of the n:al prew
may bo accepted as the point «
the new method was applied to tb
py ; from that time it became the d
ite mode. But although the echoi
philosophers professed to rely i
bare reason, they appear to ha«
stinctively felt that great want of ho
nature, the want of an oru-^lcand
found their oracle in the work
Aristotle, then in use in tlie univei
and schools of Spain, sadly porvei
by being filtered througli an An
translation. Men flew to Anibic gr
mars, and to Spain, to Arabic vcrsi
of Arbtotle, and the Sia*rrrire i
became the oracle of the Sjholas
just as the fathers were of their op
nents. But still, as is and must be
case in all relij^ious cc»ntrovcrsics,b
parties Uiy under the same neces
and, afler all, drew their [irt^roisrafr
the same quarter. The defender j
the opposer were alike fuhjivt to
influcnee of revclatiim ; wiihojt ll
the opponent would have wanted
subject of oppasition, and the Jefen
the object of his defence, so tiiat
premises of both apfi<*ar fol»i» invol
in the same thinj;. and in fine ih-.* Si:
lastics fell back also upon the fdth;
as may be seen in the S.-ntmccj
Peter Lombard, tiie hanibo>k
scholasticism, whii^h is nothing; bui
mass of extracts from ihc fathers \
jjopes, worked up ton^flher into a 8ysl
of theolo^ry. In iis earlii'st forn
cannot be denied that schi>!a?ticism<
jiood. It was a healthy revival of
telleetual life, it stiiuuLVe'l all cbs
of thinkers, and created a passion
inquiry; it brou;:^ht out such gn
minds as Abdaixl. Duns Scotu<(, s
Thomas Aquinas. The very subii>
upon which men debut* -d gave An ele'
tion to thought, and the result was
intt'Ilectual activity whieh lu? ra«
heeu (H]ualled. Ii niusi bi» reui-^mbtT
also that the schoolmen did uoi discs

MedicBvai Boots and Bymnt.

818

l8 laid down by the fathers ;
ire not infidels, but their investi-
tumed more upon the mode of
>n — they accepted the divine
e in the Eucharist, but what
mted to ascertain was the way
h it manifesled itself. They
1 in the Incarnation, but they

to know the exact mode in
Jiat sacrifice had worked out
redemption.

we must return to the develop-
' English literature. After the
1 Ck)nquest, we have already
d, the Latin tongue became
3re the medium of communica-
the learned, and all great works
ritten in that idiom, so that there
ree tongues used in England :
in by tlie clergy and scholars,
•man-French by the court and

and the Saxon, which fell to
imon people. The literature of
nod 'was rich in some depart-
poor in others. In philosophy,
Br we may think of its merit, it
fthing but scanty, and a perfect
of scliolastic writings has come
een to our times, a desert of ar-
ation and reasoning, butcontain-
is of gold, could a mortal ever be
ndowcd with the patience to dig
nough, and labor long enough
\ them. The Book of Sen-
by !^eter the Lombard, bish-
Paris, to which we have al-
Uuded, was one of the wonders .
twelAh century. It was divid-

four parts : the first treated of
nity aiid divine attributes, the

of the Creation, the origin of

of the fall of man, of grace,
JL of original and actual sin ;
lid of the .Incarnation, faith,
!haritj, the gifts of the spirit,
e commandments of God ; and
rth treated of the Sacraments,
rarrectiou, the Last Judgment,
\ state of the righteous in hea-
^though a great deal is bor-
from the fisithers,' yet there is

work a marked tendency* to-
the scholastic method ; he
rs into abstruse speculations

and subtle investigations as to the
generation of the Word, the possibility
of two persons being incarnate in one,
sibs of the will and of the action. It
did much to mould the thought of
succeeding writers, and it won for its
author the title of Master of Sen-
tences ; it was appealed to as an au-
thority ; what the ** Master" said was
a sufficient answer to an opponent.
Another great work was the Sum ma
of Thomas Aquinas, a book which*
excites admiration even now. Duns
Scotus and Occam, also contributed
voluminously to the stores of scholas-
tic theology. The literature, however,
was richer in history. Whilst the
theologians were debating about ques-
tions beyond the reach of the human
intellect, a band of quiet pious men
devoted their time to the recording
the tale of human actions. Upward
of forty men lived from the twelfth
to the fifteenth centuries, who have
written the history of the country
from the earliest periods down to the
dawning of the sixteenth century.
Probably no country in the world is
richer in historical material than our-
selves ; and as an admirable instance
of monastic diligence, and evidence of
intellectual activity in wliat has been .
usually termed an age of dense igno*
ranee, we subjoin a table of the his-
torical writers, upon whose labors
the authentic history of the country
must rest.*

MONASTIC WRITERS OF ENGLISH BISTORT.

Tvi^fih Century.

William of Poictiers, History of Conquest —

Chaplain to William I.
Ordericus YiUlis,- Ecclesiastical History to

1 141— Monk of St. EtfouU.
Anonymous, Gesta Stcphani.
William of Jumiegcs, History of Normandy

— Monk of Jumi^ges.
Florence of Worcester, ChronicoR ex Chroni-

cis to 1119— Monk of Worcester.
Matthew of Westminster, Flores Historiarum

—Doubtful.

* We omit In our lUt the ■uppoililtloos history of
Croyland, by InRultYhos, which ha« been dlspoaeil of
by Richard Palgrave, un of the thirteenth or (oar-
teenth centary, and of liiU« historical Yalue.

MMmMl Boob and E^mms.

615

I diiTiDg men rapidly to active
ch among these ariginn Au-

• Formerlj when a man wrote
orj, he framed his work upon

men's labors and his own
as was instanced in tlie case of
tson, who coolly tells us that he
lade up his mind to write a his-
f something, but was undecided
er it -should be a history of
e, of Leo X., WiUiam III. and
or Charles V. At last he de-
upon the latter, and we may
rom a letter of his to Dr. Birch
It degree of preparation he was
le woiic. He says: *^I never
xscess to any copious libraries,
o not pretend to any extensive
edge of authors, but I have
a list of such as I thought most
ial to the sabject, and hare
em down as / have found them
med in any hook I happened
uL** In another letter he ad-
^My chief object is to adorn

* as I am capable of adorning
itory of a period which deserves
i)etter known." Hume was no

than Robertson, for it appears
he latter had consulted the
English historian about Mary,
mt him a version which Robert-
^onoe used. But shortly after

received some mss. from Dr.

who went more deeply into
things, and in consequence he
to his friend Robertson to the
ing effect: **What I wrote to
rith regard to Mary, etc., was
be printed histories and papers,
am now sorry to tell you that
trdic's State Papera the matter
^ beyond all question. I got
papers during the holidays by
ireb's means, and as soon as I
hem Iran to Millar and desired
ery earnestly to stop the publi-

of your history till I should
to yoa and give yon an oppor-
of oontfcting a mistake so im-
it, bot he abtolurtely refuted com-
00. He said that your book was
3d ; that the whole narrative of
's trial most be wrote over again ;

that it was uncertain whether the new
narrative could be brought within the
same compass with the old ; that this
change would require the cancelling
a great many sheets ; and that there
were scattered passages through the
volumes founded on your ovm theory,'^
We quote these letters to show how
hbtory was written in bygone times
by men who until the days of Mait«
land and Froude have been regarded
as authorities. The blind led the
blind, and the History of Scotland-
whole sheets of which ought to have
been rewritten, and scattered passages
founded upon theory erased — was giv-
en to the world, because (he printer
refused to disturb the press, and the
author was disinclined to demolish
such a fair creation. But the day for
imaginative history is past, and a new
light is dawn>ng upon the world, the
necessity of which is apparent from
these revelations. For the future the
historian must write from manuscripts
or printed copies of manuscripts, or his
theories and his fancies will bo soon
dissipated under a criticism which is
becoming daily more powerful, and
acquiring new compass as fast as the
labors of the Record Office are being
brought to Ught. The narrative of the
most vital periods of our country's his-
tory will have to be rewritten. We
are being gradually taught that the
dark ages were not so dark as our
conceptions of them ; that some of our
favorite historical villains may yet be
saved ; and that many of the gods we
have worshipped had very few claims
to divinity. The very fact of there
being such a repertoire of historical
materials created by the labors oF those
forty monks of different monasteries ;
the existence of a voluminous and im«
portant controversy involving the vital
questions of religion, and argued with
scholarship, logi«Ekl acuteness^ wit, and
vigor; the works of piety, art, and
arehitecture which have come down to
us from that age — must convince us
that, however rude the physical mode

• DbraaU*! Utaraiy MiMaUwlM.

MedicBwd Books and Hymn$.

817

d in an office written by
quinas for the Pope Urban

the same time, there are
r passages.* In fact, in the
^8 a whole paragraph is
batim, concluding with the
B may be seen in the pious
he * Imitation of Christ'"
las labored diligently to dis-
J text evidences indicative
ionality of the author, but
ended in contradictions
1 to insinuate that it might
t production of pious minds
it countries, which would
tiomas k Kerapis the honor
collected and arranged them
jrm. However, instead of
ne over a fruitless investi-
prefer taking the book as it
wealth of spirituality, with
auty, its power of soothing
>ed spirit, its Subtle analyses
an heart f and the springs
action, its encouragement to
e, its fervor, its eloquence,
range power; and we are
he conclusion that it is the
ellous book ever produced —
rellous from the universal
it has exerted over the
aen of all creeds, ages, and
ind from its adaptability to
n yearnings of all humanity,
ospel, of which it is th^ex-
id therefore from which it
) quality, it stands out in its
dividuality, in the midst of
^e of life through which it
i, a distinct thing, having

common with -the world or
irsuits, but trying to wean
them, or at least from al-
im to gain an ascendency
affections. In the present
isolation is more striking,
far too philosophical, too
too logical, to attend to
raving of this ^^ monkish '*
e business of life runs high

ages may be seen collected In parallel
rrork by Bl. De lircRory on L'Ulstoire
Lmltation. Paris, 1(^.

aoalyfis of Temptation, lib. I., c.
rell-knoirn chapter OQ the Royal Road
liiU.,cxU.

VOL. IV. 52

with US, runs too noisily, to allow us
to listen to its small voice. We are
so deeply engaged in the pursuits oT
pleasure and the acquisition of wealth,
that we have no time for the "' Imita-
tion of Christ." We are involved in
great undertakings — Atlantic tele-
graphs, principles of physical science,
railway committees, parliamentary re«
forms, and drainage questions, absorb
all our attention. But philosophy,
science, and logic, fail to exempt hu-
manity from its ills. The hour comes
when a man falls sick, sick unto death ;
then in that moment when philosophy
deserts pain, and science affords no
consolation ; when logic is dumb, and
the soul with instinctive apprehension
is clamoring for help, then is the mo-
ment for such a boots as this. And
it was « in such a moment that La
Harpe, cast into a dungeon of the
Luxembourg, with nothing but death
before him, accidentally meeting with
this book, and opening its pages at
the words '' Ecce adsum I Ecce ad te
venio quia vocasti me. Lacrymae tote
et desiderium animse tuse, humiliatio
tua et contritio cordis inclinaverunt
me et adduxerunt ad te,"* he fell
upon his &ce heartbroken and in
tears. We must conclude this por-
tion of the subject by repeating that
the Latin language retained its posi*
tion as the language of literature until
the time of the Reformation. But dur-
ing the fourteenth century there was
a tendency to blend the two vernacu-
lar tongues spoken in England — the
French and the Saxon. Ip the strug-
gle for precedence the Saxon conquer-
ed, and out of it came the present
vigorous idiom spoken by the Eng-
lish ; but nothing of any consequence
was written in this tongue until it be-
came settled and confirmed.

We now advance to the considera-
tion of one of the most beautiful em-
anations of Christianity in the world
— her hymns. We take up these

* " De Im!., lib. HL, c. xxl., sec. 6. Behold me I
behold I come to thee because thou hast called me.
Thy tears and the desire of tliy toul, thy humUiation
and contrition of heart have lixcUa«<^ ^^ ^^ ^^ *^^
thee.

818

Medi'ival Books and Hymns,

hymns of the churcli. and wo find
that they bear testimony, not only
literary but hi?tori«-al, as to the state
of the chunh ai any given time, and
certainly one of the best and purest
testimonies: that can l>e found. Few,
if any, writers have sufficiently investi-
gated this branch of ecclesiastical his-
tory, the evidence of the hymnology
of tiie church. If we appeal to lu^r
controversial theolo^ry we simll find,
invariably a mass of one-sided repre-
sentation, mutual vituperation, and in-
vcctive ; if we go to ecclesiastical his-
tory we shall find that those histories
are written by minds working under
the bias of some inclination toward
sect or theory ; but if wo take up tlic
hymns of the church wo shall have
tlie pure, free, outspoken voice of
the church — we shall see, as it were,
its internal organization, its emotions,
its aspirations, its thoughts, living,
throbbing, palpitating — the very heart
of the church itself.

The song of Christianity has never
ceased in the world ; it has continued
ID an unbroken stniin. It Ix^gan at
its very outi^et in the son^r of the
mother of its tbundt r, mid it has TxMrn
going on ever since. As the voice of
on(» age dies away, the stniin is taken
up by the next. It lias sunk at times
into a low plaintive melorly, an<l at
others mounted into a gr:ind swelling
psalm, heard above the noise of thf*
world, wiiich ceases its strife to listen
to its music. Of tliis melody we shall
now endeavor to give a brief history.
We lH?gin at tlie eotniii:r of our Lord ;
but the whole worship of the true OrMl
is marked by the psalmody of n joicing
hearts. The children of Israel hy the
Red Sea hroke out into the iirst re-
corde<l song; a eonsitlerahle portion
of the Scripture is in th.ai form ; Jesus
with his disciples sung a hymn at the
Last Sapper: the apostles continued the
practice, and from post apostolic limes
there have come do.vn to us ihive
great hymns, whose oriirin is lost in
their ivmote antiquity — :lie Ter Sanc-
tus, the Gloria in ExceUis, and the
Te Deum. These hymns were used

in the very earliest a;*;-
Of the latter then: is a
was sung by Ambrose
at the baptism of Augii
The i>eriods of iiyni
divided into tw.> grea
earliest or Gn'ek pe
to tlie dawn of the 1
when the see^iml or
com'nenccs ; antl this
subilivided into thnre ]
brosian, the BaVbariun
dia^val. The earliest
are anonymous ; there
on the Cross :—

" Thou wlirt i>n tli«^ A\\\\ \\ ir
I)I«M ii:ill t-i th- .r-... tSr-
Wlilrh A'l.liii .lir..! in P..: i
U.Mjil .-ilsu iJii' h.iJi'lv. !;i:ii-. ■
O Ulirist our L.-.-.i \ ui;:i i. n

Th(?re is one on repents
ing :—

" RiNvlvpthy «»»»rv;r r. v.ty Sm
F.illiii:^ lif-i".:-- !ii'.- Aiii. 1. II
Anil save, if.n*, t-i- :■ [- ■.*;

And a shnple dox'»lo;ry

eiiri-i i- p \ I. I/.',
T:..- n.:i ^.■. 1 :-:

H...U rii..i >. .■..■;.

The first na!ne of
whii'li has reaehi^d \\^ \i
ent of Alexandria, uh-
th(f elosr* of tlu' ru-'oi;!!
of llis hymns i- eall'*!.
Saviour. Hiii it i- r«
IJasii that a hynni w;
in the first ami >e.*i»:id
eiJ, Hail, (JlrvMninir
was sung in tin- ehiuih^
ing of till' lamps : —

•' Il.iil. .1. «i:* C ■•^: : h/i. .
t»rii.- u\v •.-■■.y'. i". •: ' c'
l!:'-<--.| . f .r.I -liii". I . ■. 1
Anl ..f f.- ::.i. ; Ijk .. .■..; ,

•• \i-'V. wrl V.:- ♦:.■■ ■ :!• \* -■?:i

\..i». -.iii'Ii- • r .I- .•.-■.

T. Kiri.. -, > :i !■■ I ."■■■. i'.

\Vf r-i-:-, I-'.: c 1;".:::; I ,.

*■ W rthvt?; i. « :•* t.-.. -•
r.. «..■ !mi .!;,■ 1 1 i.i- ■. :•■,

s.'i ..n;..i. ■.' ..r. e. ^;...

\'l.\X till' «■ 1.1 - .. ! i.i-.ti.

There wei*e several :
at ibis period. 10] dm

Jfediaval Booh and Bymnt.

819

id deacon of Mesopotamia,
be Children in Paradise,
n Sunday, The Entry of
to Jerusalem, and another,
he Lament of a Father on
of his Son, which used to
at the funerals of children,
of Nazianzen is the best
' tho Greek hymn-writers.
I two hymns to Christ extant
md an evenin*]^ hymn. In
i hymns to Christ Uie follow-
ye occurs : —

slrftil, bearing weeds and fbornt^
e curte— ah 1 whither thall I flee ?
tt blessed ! bid my fleeting days
enward, Christ, sole fount of hope to

Is near— to thee I cling !
ob ! -strengUien me by might divine ;
ambling bird be from thine altar driven—
t is thy will, Christ !— save me, for I

And thou, Christ my Khsg, art flOlMrlMid to im—
Strength, wealth, eternal rest, yea all , I And ia
thee."*

St Andrew of Crete, St. John of
DamascoB, St. Cosmas, Bishop of
Maiuma, and Chrysostom, were
amongst the Greek hymn-writers.
Their productions are diaracterized
by the greatest simplicity and fervor,
reliance upon Christ and iove to Grod
being the most prominent topics. We
now come to the period of Liatin hymns,
and we begin with the first* or Ambro-
sian division. The principal writers
are Ambrose, Hilary, and St. Pruden-
tius. Augustine, in bis Confessiona,
quotes one of Ambrose's hymns, as
having repeated it when lying awake
iri bed, ^ Atque ut eram in lecto meo
solus, recordatus sum veridicos versus
Ambrpsii tui : Tu es enim.f

y's life was spent in a <5on-
nflict with Arianism. At
f fifty he went to Constan-
id a? all the churches were
bands of the Arians, he
in the house of a relative,
joon subject to persecution,
;d in the streets," arrested,
with much difficulty acquit-
mately he succeeded ; the
esy passed away ; the house

had so faithfully preached
le Church of " Anastasia ;"
had risen thcrev But time,
wrought success, had left him
»ly old man. He was made

of Constantinople by the
Theodosius ; but he had lost
irest relatives, and he threw
gnity and retired from the
I that retirement he wrote a
ymn, which sums up his life.

the first and last verses : —

he winged words ? Lost in the air.
♦h flower of youth and gl^ry ? Gone 1
of well-knit limbs ? Drou^'ht low by

ndered. None possess but Ood nlone.

ear ]wrenls who my life flrst giive,

it holy twain, brother and sister ? In

** Dens creator omniam
Pollque rector, vestlena
Diem decoro lumine
Noctem sopora gratia.

'* Artns snlntot at quiet
Reddat laboris usul,
Mentesque fessas adlevet
Lactusque solvat anxloa.*'

Ambrose was bom about the vear
840 ; his father was a prefect of daul,
and belonged to a noble family. Be-
fore the age of thirty he himself was
consul of Ligiiriu, and dwelt at Milan.
Up to this time he had no notion of
becoming an ecclesiastic But Auxen-
tins, the Arian bishop, having died, a
dispute arose between the citizens of
^(ilan and the emperor, as to who
should appoint the successor, each try-
ing to evade the responsibility. It was
lefi to the people ; the city was in a
state of great excitement, and a tumul-
tuous assemblage filled the cathedral,
in the midst of whom appeared Am-
brose in liis civil capacity, to command
peace, and it is said that in the lull
which ensued, a voice was heard cry-
ing, **• Ambrose is bishop," which the
whole mass of people, seized by a sud-
den impulse, I'epeated. Soon after-

wilt, the Day will all unite,
mttereil, when thy word Is said ;
abysset without light,
Ibonal, these alone are dread.

* These extracts ttom translations of Greek hymns
are quoteil from The Christian Uf^ ^ ^^S* where
the full versions may be seen

t August. Coafeic,Ub. ix^ ^11.

Media-val Booh and Hymns,

Then the epiaoile—

*■ Bant radlantia Jaiplde mccola cUr* pyropo/*

" With Juapen glow thy bulwarks,

Tby streeti with «meraldd blaie,
The wirdlut and the topni

Unite In Uiee their ray* ;
Thine agcfi'M whIIs are bonded

With amethyst uuprlceil :
The saints bulM up Its fabric,

And the corner-stone is Clirlst.

Thou hast nd sliore, (air nrean f
Thou hast no time, bright day I

Dear fountain of refr^hmeut
Tb pllKrlms far away.

They stand, those halls of SIon»

Cni^ublUnt with sonff.
And bright with many an an^el

And all the niHrtyr thronj; ;
The Prince Is ever In them,

Their daylight is serene ;
The ] Mixtures of the blessed

Are decked In i;lurlnus sht'cn.
There Is the throne of David,

And there, fkt>ni care releused.
The SOUR of them tliut triumph.

The shout of them that feAMt ;
And thtfy who, with their leader.

Have conquered in the Oght,
For ever and for ever

Are clad in robes of whiU\"

But we must pauso, for to ^ive all
the beauties of this i>oetn would be to
transcribe the whole. Another St.
Bernard, the well-known abbot of
dairvaux, was a eontemponiry with
him of Clugny. lie was one of tiie
most influential men of his a^re, a man
far in advance of it ; the adviser of
po{>cs and the confidant of kinss.
Many hymns are attributed to him,
one of the most brautiful bein^r that
known as Jesu Duk'is Memoria. In
Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry there is'
a st^lection of fifteen verses, but the
original consists of forty -eight verses.*
It is a fine specimen of the ardent
loving poetry so characterisiic of tin*
period. A very beautiful version, or
rather imitation of this |>of'ni, is extant
in the liarlcian MSS., written in the
ri'ign of Jvhvard I., and as it is a very
gc)o«l specimen of the PInglish of the
[M'riotl, and represents the spirit of thi*
original, we venture to quote a verso
or two.t

L
** Je!«u, suele is t»ie love of thee,
Nnthni;; !Mi mete m:ty lie ;
AI thut may wlUi eyen xif
lLfc\eth nu iiuetut-e*e H;;v>nes the.

• Wl. Remanli ClnriB Vallensis Opp : Brnedlctine
•ditiitn, viil. li., p. NO.
t Printe«l ulsu iu the Percy Society's Publlcaliun.«.

▼oJ. iv., p. ca.

Ttr.

•* Jhe«n. when Hi Ih*

And hike up<in the :

Thl au>*te bmly t«i-t<

Uit maketh beurte

XVIII

** Jhe^ii. my naule dn
Min ln'tiric "it-ne i
ThiM hiir»- I'f l-ivi-i«i
That Ueyesbliibe lu

XLT,

" Jcsu, thin help :a n

Ant Inethut dfirii:

S«nd mi Miuk- v-l «

That y n« drvJe n-ji

We can only n«)tit
hymn, selected also
of Bei-Panl, n<!dn-^>
portions of th«i botl
cros?. Tiiii is fron
and commences — •

'* Sihe «M|iiit rr
Totuui )i|iiiii» c

As it is Olio of th
hymns, and lias hcc
nearly all Kiiropcai
give the trail shit ion :

*• IIjU I thnti hiMiI 4'i liTui'
With thr i-mvin nf iIi'Tii
Siiiittf-n witli till- ini-okir
WiminU Willi- li 111.1} II. t

Trirkliii,: faint .in
ll.ill ! from wliixi- iii<««t 1
N.iiu- cm Willi" til'- I : ■ li
All ll»' ll-wi-r of lir- III-
Mort:il |i.it' iif-o t"nn' iii
Tl:i»ii. iM-firi- nh..*. p-i-.

Aiigfl- lrv:ii!'lln.; I

*• All Ihy vi.-.r .iTi.l thy lif.
I'.tiliii): in tlii'« >ii:t- r *lr\
l>i'allt 111* »!.inii' ••II t'i:x
lli'llow .mil I ni.ii-i.t!-.

K.iint un-i •ir'nipin!
Tlitiii. tlii<« UL'-iiiv an>l *i-
llii"! Ii»r 111 • a !-inniT t-i.r
M«\ nn«iii(>iy .^'.] f-r in
t\ilh iho-i- -ijii- .if l.iv^

(il'.-rl'iii!* ri.-i'a|»|i.-.

*' Vi't In tliUtl:in#»:ir<tnv.
K.ililifiiUii-|ii.. r-l. iMnk
Fr iiii ulii-r li|i« ..n IV. < i|
S»col"-t ilr.iu.'Jii- lif l.f-

Purr«l l..in.'v li.--A*
All uiiW'Hilit i<r tiir lii'i
tiiiiMi, )tl i-jf.-i ni- n •
rni> nil- ili\ III i.t ii..-: ii
Let thai •l>iii.-i.'.iil->r t'

III mill'- aim* i- ;■ ■

'* l.i't me tnii* {■■nitniirii- n 1
Willi t'lt-e III iliv '.niril '
Cotiiitliic .iUl-->iiU- iiul il
li>iii^ null tliti- •III ll.i- i-i

'.NV.iili il w'il 1 .ill
Tliank" l • iht*r wii:. i.vi rj
Ji'-n*. fiT liv liiitf r ■'. ti"
(trant tl.> i:iiit\ i<!i-: i' i
\\ Li.-n in> ill Ml J lii>!ir i«

Ur^ci III" Iiul. U- I

• Fur the Latin, t*^ Tfcn.-j

p. \yj.

JBdiceval Booii amd Eymtu.

n% hoar mutt be,
then from ine ;
j1 hour I praj
hoMi delay,
set me free.
(ie«t me depart,
: to with my heart,
}ul be near,
kg croM appear ;
yaelf to me."*

I excellent version of this
n the Passion Hymn of
1, beginning —

veil Blut un«l Wundcn,
:uerz uud voller llohn !*'

ndest of all the mediaeval
\i attributed to Thomas
[lown as the Dies Ine.
p is uncertain ; it burst
•Id after a long silence
, like some strain wafted
1 on the winds of heaven.
3 been the favorite hymn
s in every country. In
ward of sixty transla-
en made of it. Groethe
y introduced it into the
le cathedral scene, where
s tempted by the evil
len the choir cliamed the

Irae, dies ilia,

et tueclum iu favilla,**

lonically into her ear —

rlmm fasst dich !
(' Powaunc tont !
e (iralier bebvu !
id del II Hers,
ift Aschenruti
, Klaiiinienquallen
iedur aurgeichalTen
:btttaf;"

rough the whole scene,
e meaning of the hymn
of the broken-hearted
muttered by the dying
or Scott, and has em-
renius of such men as
ilite, and Hepder. We
ige—

larc, Jesii pie,
Miin <>au!«>i tuffi vie,
penbu ilia die.

ns me sedlstl las«u8,
\U\X crucem |mssu«,
i labor uon sit cassus."

in Christian Life In Song.

** Think of me, food Lord, I pray.
Who troddest for me the bitter way,
Nor foraake mt in that day.

" Weary iat*Bt thou seeking me,
Pledat redeeming in the tree,
Not in vain auch toil can be.^

The roedisBval period was one riok
in art and active in intellectual work.
The great difference between that ag»
and this is, that in medisval times
intellectual life was concentrated,
and now it is spread abroad ; we get
more books and readers, hut less great
books And thinkers. Perhaps there
has never been a time of such vigor-
ous intellectual effort in £ngland, un-
less we except the Elizabethan age,
than that of the scholastic controver-
sies of the twelfth, thirteenth, and
fourteenth centuries. It was in this
age, too, that the essentially mediaeval
art of illumination nourished in all
the lettered monasteries of Europe, the
age when all the great cathedrals were
built, and when that enchanting song
whose notes we have just been listen-
ing to was improvised and sung. The
God who presides over the economy
of nature presides also over that <^
life. His hand is in both, apholding, '
protecting, guiding. We take tip a
phase of human hiitory like this me-
dieval phase, and to us it appears con-
tradictory, objectless, useless ; bat we
must remember that it is but one pari
of the gt>;at economy, that as every
phase of nature has its separate ate^
so every period in the history of hu-
manity contributes its share to the
general result. There are no arid
dark wastes in history any more than
in nature. Progressing geographical
science is gradually revealing to oar
minds the fact that Central Africa is
not the deadly useless desert of oar
imagination, but is probably belted
and intersected with rivers, whose
fertilizing power has only to bo 14^*
plied. So a progressive histori(»d .
science is rapidly clearing away the
darkness of these dark ages, revealing
to ui treasures which have long lain
hidden. We speak of the paat as an-
tiquity, and we are apt to asaocu&^^to
idea of age with it, joat aa we VKJk.\ft-

^1 1^

824

Robert ; or, ThB Bifluence of a Good Mother.

1 ; f

! !

ji! I

ward the present as youthful and new.
But we must remember that antiquity
really }>e1ongs to the present as the
result of time, and that the past was
the youth. So when we go back into
these past ages of the church we must
regard them as her youth, and instead
of quarrelling with the A>llies and wan-
tonness inseparable from immaturity,
endeavour to do our best to help on
the great consummation of her mission
in the world, knowing well tliat al-

though the hey*day of 1
past, she has not yet atta
maturity ; and in times
when schism is rife, wliec
her bosom desert her, wli€
en themselves against fa
forsake her, ever bear
promise of her great hca
er, " Upon this rock I buil
and the gates of hell shal
against it.**

Translated from the Frencb.

ROBERT ; OR, THE INFLUENCE OF A GOOD M

CHAPTER IV.

" Piiris '. fnilf of evils, on eadi of thy stones
we could firop a teiir, retl with bIo<id, If tbe sor-
rows, which tby walls enclose, could appear before

BS."— J. J. RiH-^KAC.

The city of innumerable wonders,
of shining domes, and colossal towers,
with its enchanting gardens, palaces,
and gigantic monuments, which one
sees in the distance — the first glimpse
he gets of Paris through the blue haze —
now a[>|K'nred to the astonished gaze
of the little mountaineer, and was like
a dream of the Arabian Nights. ** O
Paris I Paris !" shouted he joyously,
clappini; his hands, and looking eagerly
through tlie misty veil tliat still envel-
oped llie city. And, as he approached
nearer, his emotions redoubled ; for it
was there that his mother predicted he
would one day be happy. Oh ! sweet
security, blissful trust of childhood,
why must it pass away with advancing
years? Why is it that devouring in-
quietude and mental restlessness then
comes to our souls, and tortures them
witliout ceasing ? It is a sad condition
of our probation here, that we must
see all the bright delusions of early
life disap[)ear one by one ; and submit
unmurinuringly to the different ])ha8e8
of life and the different ideas and feel-
ings to which time leads us all. And
80 it may perhaps be for little liobert,

who now trusts so confid
future, and in his mother
being fulfilled. Have cou
him, dear readers — like
without trying to draw at
wliich hides your destiny
him, step by step, in all t
events of his life, and |>erli
sec him till an enviable pn
fruit of his gooil conduct a
ance. And since he is
with hope, let us not effac<
discreet words, this vision
tains and comforts all.

As the travellers noare
old man's forehead wrinkh
contracted each moment.,
of rage burst from his
sight of the hordes of the
diers who had est:iblished
acs before the capital, pi
tninsport of fury.

The detested uniforms
lish, Austrians, Russian;*.
sians which he saw before
him think he was the vie:
dreadful hallucination, but
air of the conquerors awal
the frightful r«!ality that
could no longef expel th<
terrible rage he beat his
his fists, swore, and uttere
sounded like distant thund
his teeth at the same tin

Robert ; Wy The Influence of a Good Mother,

TuUireljT. Then he walked on with
a resolute and hasty step, so that Rob-
ert was oblisred to run, rather than
walk, at his side to keep up with him.
He was verj taciturn, but the boy at
wee comprehended the reason of his
8tnbbom silence, and he respected the
holy indignation of the old warrior,
wounded in his national pride and his
deepest feelings, when he saw all his
dreams of glory vanish with the shad-
ow of the great man who hail 'made
the fame and splendor of all France.
To the ex-soldier of the guard there was
nothing left but cruel discontent. In
Paris there was militia of all ranks
and grades ai^d countries; but there
were no brave leaders, the old soldiers
thooght, and most of them were young
men who had yet to sec the field of
btttle. The white stripes had replaced
the three colors, which disappeared
with the glorious exile, Nai>oleon. The
deapau- of poor Cyprien was as greiit
tt his Ipve for his emperor, and noth-
Bg could soflen his rage, so violent
*i8 the hatred he felt for the new
•rfer of things.

Robert was much excited by the
Btrange and picturesque spectacles
which presented themselves to his
▼lew on every side — ^by the gay cos-
tames of the people, and the move-
JDents of this ocean of human beings,
hat be did not addre^ numy questions
to his sad companion, for he loved him
■rody, and saw the deep sorrow that
"IW his Boul, and it made him timid
■nd reserved.

^t was now time to think of getting
*°pngB, and Cyprien wanted to go
"^tothe most modest quarter of the
•■^i where he was born, and for which
^tajally he had the strongest affection.

But

UJ the twenty-five years tliat he

?"J D^n a wanderer, vast changes
J*^ taken place, and most of his family
™ gone to rest. He found hhuself
***^ Separated for ever from his old
JP^'^'Bdes of glory; but of this he

-^ JA little, so completely was his
Jf*t filled with the adored image of

tUni

wnperor. The most extraordinary
'g was that amiUst his grave

thoughts he had found a p
little orphan, whom chance
in his way, and for whom
the strongest attachment, '
day by day, for C'yprien k
by halves ; and when he <
moment forget his enipero
bestow almost paternal car
young prottigi. One day, wli
been having a long talk,
said things which charmed
and loving boy, he asked 1
him to the Church of Si
FAuxerrois, for it was theiv
to find the cure to whom hi
addressed. ^ Willingly," r
rien, "1 will take you tli
cannot go in, it has been sc
I have made a visit of tha
I don't care to go, but I w
you." Rol)ert presented hii
at the door of the euro's
was received by him with p
touching cordiality. He w;
fine address, with eyes that
penetrate the depths of one
his scrutiny was accompli
smile so beneficent, that it
irresistibly toward the r
God. The virtues he hat
appeared in his person, his
was full of purity and goc
he appeared ever ready to ]
bless. Such, in gcnei-al ten
man to whom Robert was ri
ed. When he had read I
letter, he made the child sit
tell him all about his joumc
maniter in which he acquiti
charmed the good cure, and
and intelligent face set him
ing. The purity of his eye!
generous and noble soul, an
man knew that he was on<
natures that always reniai
the midst of corruption. T
angels have often sorrowfu
fore they reach the glorious
prived of pecuniary meani
the paths to fame clo:«cd
while it is open for the ricii.
wide and easy of access.

The good cure, after ma
observations mentallyt ^^^^

826

Robert ; or^ The Influence of a Good Mother,

lustrions men who liavo illumined the
earth from time to time with the rays
of their genius, and the traces of whose
lives are still visible ; but the rbad to
fame has, alas ! been sown for ecntu-
ries with bitter tears, unknown suffer-
ings, and cries of tiio despair of unrec-
ognized gi.*nins. lie repealled faces
radiant with sublime tlioughts, crown-
ed with thorns, the only recompense of
their work, and he said with agony,
** O God ! if this child should ever be
one of the victims, if he should ever
weep over lost hopes, would it not bo
better to leave him ns he is, simple and
natural, ignonint of the delights of a
studious life, ignorant of knowU'dge,
than to be initiated into the ci ucl de-
ceptions of hope long deferred, and
which may be finally lost ? How often,
like a beautiful dream, youth, glor}', and
mind fade away in the awful struggh^
But no," said he, fixing his eyes on
the expressive face of llobert, ^ his
future will not be so sad. Too much
intelligence bums in his eyes, too much
fire, is lighted thereto be extinguished
by tlie wearying labors of mind, or by
hunger and frightful misery. If this
diamond in the rough sliows so much
brilliancy, what will it not be when it
is polished? Then will all it"* marvel-
lous lustre ap|)ear, and 1 will have the
holy joy of aiding to iK'rfect this work."
These were his reflectioiis. wnd so had
it always been with him ; from the nio-
nicnt he was ord:iined to his saintly
ministry, lie was always looking for the
means of doing gcnxl toothers, and was
a beautiful religious type of charity
and gocKiness. 1( was so grt»at a hap-
pinci^s to him to n.ake others happy,
that he lookeil upon his days as badly
spent if he had n;)t drird a tear, or
given another joy ; and his doing good
was so sweet a duly, that he passed
his days and niidits in consoling (he
uiifortuiiatt'. liut for chi Id n*n especially
, was hi' most tendiTly solicitous, lie
said with one who was all love and
charily when among men, *• Let little
children come unto me." Like his
divine Master, he drew them to him and
prcsseil them to his heart, his handi

rested on their young head.Mi
called down upon them colenlial
dictions. But he did not »{q\
He gave them not only his pi
but aid and protection. Wli
purse was exhausted, and his pc
resources no longer sufficed, hi
recourse to that of ethers. II
eloquent and persuasive wh
pleaded the cause of ehildivi
happy in receiving the ofTerinir*
were always deposited in his elui
hands. Thus he was the faiin
large family, the benetaci'^tr of
children, who, 1>ecoming men,
his care by unlimited gniiitud
irreproachable conduct and by tl
stant practice of the \frtues of
he had given them so noble an
pie. Robert found in him a Jend
devoted protector, who was iiiti
for him, and in whose future
ship he might trust. Tiie day
this action was regi<ten'd in h
tlie good man felt a happin<'.-;t I
never known bt'foie i:i ado:«iin^
(Jod the orphan that his tricn
cure of the village of Bains, Lad
mended to him in such w rm
Thn vow which ho ma«le him
protect him, was not like ihe?"
usually make, and forget as t
made.

During the iiiter\iew lietwe
child and the cure, the old sc^Mr
walking up and down ouiside. :
ed in reflections of quiie an u]
nature. Sometimes hope cdn:
thoughts loftener they were sonil
C(dd, like the clouds of ihe !•
which memory tiansporu-d hiiti,
fatal soil of Russia, where viotoi
abandoned the Fn*neh llair. A
was passed by hi in in re-alliirg
days of sorrow, but a! las: li<
tired of waiting, and jeiked ai i
string, which hung somodistiy
curi's floor, most viole tly. lit
stant a servant apiM'ared v 1-h
woiils on the end of her tung
thesevei*e tiiee and long nimi^ij
Cyprien huluced her to witidjoi
speaking them. Scarcely was l!i
opened, when a voice, almost ut tl

Babert ; cr^ I%» Influmee of a Goad Mother.

ired for Robert. Hearing it, tbe

opened tbe parlor door, and ad-
ing toward the soldier, with an
le air, invited him in, saying, " I
be verj gbid to talk with jou.
were, I suppose, uneasj about your
friend, whom I have detained a
time, I know, but it is not time

we have become acquainted and
now old friends, and you have a
5 of the affection I have avowed
lis interesting child. You have a
) heart, and the Lord will bless
my friend, you may be sure of that,
I the middt of your own sufferings
have had compassion on those of
rs, and above all you have pro-
d an orphan !" The soldier was
oed by this benevolent speech ; he
d his hand mechanically to his
lead, following the cure and mut-
g the words ** Pardon — excuse
I not pay any attention to me."
;rt had not dared to move, but
I Cyprien came near him, he
r himself into his arms. " There — '
will do," said he to him — "pay
tion, the cure speaks." ^ Why
on not come in with Robert? You

denied me the pleasure I should

had in talking with a brave
ar. Out protege has spoken of
n most anectionate terms, but he
xot tell me you were waiting for
or I should not have suffered you
*iain outside the door." ** Thank

M. Cure, but I ctinnot talk to
1 have so few words, and have
been accustomed to much, and

know is how to use 'Arms.'"
csh of us has his profession, my
d," replied the cure, ** and you have
i yours glorious. Nevertheless
must allow me to think you know
at deal besides." '* If that is your

kind father, I will not oppose it,
^ith respect to you, I must tell you
ce not seen a book since I knew
Little Corporal,' and we are old
aintances. Twenty-five yeai-a,"
he, ** impossible to forget that ' —
3g away a tear.

STes, my friend, you have reason
egret }*our emperor, and even to

weep for him, for he was a gri
and loved } ou all as children.^

** But, oh ! how was he repai
then he wept again.

** The love you bear your
honors you. Respect and de^
misfortune fills noble souls, ar
derstand very well how your
meut is augmented in propo
the sufferings which weigh do
chief; and it is not for me, a
of peace and charity, to make
of your regrets and affection, <
nounce them. But let us leave
subjectf until you know me bt
have more confidence in me.
day we will talk about Robert
plans for him. I am thankfu
for taking a father's place to bii
out you he would have been lo:
great city, or might perhaps h
persons who would have pla«
in contact with vice and wic
I rejoice that a kind Provide!
mitted this child to awaken an
in you, and that he found you
tionate a guide. You must
your friendship, and I hope
his, by the care I will
him."

. " Oh ! my dear father," said
kissing respectfully the banc
new protector, *^you are too
mtj, but I will try to repay yc
ness by a full and entire sul
to your least wishes."

**Well spoken, little one !" e:
the soldier, " this is the first d
conscript.*' ^

" I will try to find the mean
ing him to fill a high positi
day," said the curt'. " I li
quaintanc.es and friends who '
me of their wealth, for,** said
tone of regret, *' I am far fro
rich. But no matter, God \
us ; I have this sweet oertaint
may take courage, my little fri
whatever taste you may have f
I promise you I will do all tl
to advance you. You arc
good hands that I shall have
tor uneasiness us to how you
time, and I will leave you £<

828

Robert ; or, 2'he Influence of a Good Moik

and perhaps I may bring back some
good news for you."

After calling at several houses with-
out success, he chanced to see a wealthy
widow who had but one child, a son.
This boy was of a most vicious nature,
and although young in years, he had
every defect of character, without a
single good quality. He made his
poor mother despair, and she often
reproached herself bitterly for her
weakness toward him, but she knew
no means that would reform his bad
habits, which assumed the form of
fatal and violent passion. AVlien the
euro spoke of Robert, she said : " O
God ! since he is possessed of so many
amiable and virtuous qualities, en-
trust him to me. He will be treated as
my own child, will share the studies
of Gustave, and have the same masters ;
and perhaps God may pity a mother's
sorrows, and that this child may have
so good an influence over him, that
Gustave may feel a desire to be good
also. I pray you do not refuse me/*
said the mother in a supplicating tone ;
^ I cling to this last hope, as a ship-
wrecked man would cling to the plank
he liopes will save him from perish-
ing."

After long consideration of the
chances of liappiness and success in
the future if Robert accepted it— of the
great dissimilarity of ll»e two persons
wlio would thus be thrown together,
and the disngreemonts and sufierings
for Robert ; and still worse, if the pure,
rich nature of the orphan should be
corrupted in the society of the wicked
child, whom he knew only too well —
he was still undecided. But an irre-
sistible, thouf;h secret, argument spoke
in favor of i\w mother of Gustave ; so
that at last her pressing solicitations
were acceded to. He reserved for
himself the right to watch closely over
the precious trust that Providence had
contided to him, and after this it was
agived that Robert should be present-
ed to Madame de Vemanges (this was
tlie name of Gustiive's mother) as soon
as he could be informed of it, and if he
was willing to accept it.

CHAPTER

" The heart of a wicked max
one can flntl i>ardoD before bin

Robert was willii
any wish of the gocn
so generously chained
destiny. We have sal
was gifted with noble i
a lively perception, bis
ulties were strong, an<
have power to do all i
ed of him. He had n
wlmt was not good, an
of those happy orga
can only be a gift i
felt it his duty to obey
tector wished, and wb
that his interest require
go to the house of M
nanges, and share in 1
cation this lady gave
ert replied : " If it is 3
ready to go."

The cure was surpri:
'at this eagerness to fi
this entire self-abnegiit
could not but prize th
of acting for himself, w
long enjoyed on liis no
and a still further prool
able di?pa»»iiion was,
young as he was, the a
his tastes to duty, and
of making himself agr
who intereste<l thonl^i(
The kind priei^t did noi
Robert's money for thin
be dispensed with, but h
unsuitable to his new
had him a complete wa
ed, and a woman could
more careful about th<
tails.

When all was in reo
ducted him to the hou;
de Vemanges. As »oc
him, slie felt as if he w
ating angel to be placed
She embraced him affe
asked him if lie " woul
a mother"? "OhT' ssi
becoming serious at su
**I cannot promise y

Robert ; or^ The Influence of a Good Mother,

829

iaa.clame,for it would be impossible for
me to feel for any otber woman the
same degree of affection that I feel
for my mother f but, he added, smiling
sweetij, '*I think I can assure jou
that I will love you much."

Some author says that a child only
loves his mother for the services she
renders hinu Can this be true ? No —
it is blasphemy against filial love ; and
were it so, alas for the happiness of mo-
thers I Far sweeter is the idea that one
loves the other for the other^s sake alone ;
one ia the consequence of the other, it
is a love eternal like the soul, like its
divine author, like God himself. There
may be some selfish children who
measure their love for their parents
by the services they render them, but
they are monsters — sad and rare excep-
ttona — and deserve all our pity. The
pitx>f of what we affirm is found in
the love that Robert always preserved
in his heart for the dear and sajcred
remembrance of his mother. It is the ■
strongest, most lively and unalterable
of feelings, and has no rival in the
other loves Grod has given to man in
i bis short life. Who can hear the name
of mother spoken without feeling a de-
«aous sensation, and having a tear-
*op moisten the eye?

Madame de Vemanges was so

incased with Robert's frankness, that

«be felt for him from that moment the

^'^^t tender sympathy. After a few

"•^^ttients' conversation Gustavo was

^nt fopj but the reception he gave his

™^Tye companion of play and study,

Am *^^* ^^^^ encouraging to the latter.

r*^P*^t,from the height of his grandeur

'^*^lied down upon him with disdain,

.. ^^ceived with a very bad grace

^?J^**iiable advances of Robert, who

1 . ^^^ to conquer at once the friend-

aat ^^ ^^® young comrade. He was

. ^**>»hed and sad at the coldness

J^^^esd him, but little by little Gus-

1 ^ Softened, and laid aside his inso-

^ lir. The acquaintances of this

^^^^ of life are easily made. Rob-

-t^-gave himself up with perfect

T^?*^<2o» to the new pleasure of play-

^^S and talking with a child of his

own age. He was not distrustful, for
he had no experience ; and as his own
thoughts were so good and pure, he
never suspected others. The mother
and the cure, tliough seemingly occu-
pied in conversation, followed with ob-
serving and restless eyes tlie move-
ments of the children. The latter
feared, and not without reason, to see
some awkward blunder made by a child
raised so far from the world, and in
the simple habits of a happy medioc-
rity. But to his inexpressible satis-
faction he saw Robert as easy in his
manners as in his langua<re, and he
acted as if he had bc^en bred in a par-
lor. His rare intelligence displayed
itself in his answers to Gustave, and
he could not have been more sparkling
in his repartees. His candor and good
nature did not permit him to compre-
hend the perfidious intentions of his
saucy interrogator, and it was a cruel
mortification for the wicked Gustave,
not to be able, in spite of his ruses, to
find any fault with Robert. He had
counted on a triumph, and received a
complete humiliation; he thon<rht to
show his superiority to the cliiid who
was given him as a model, and his dis-
appointment was that he felt before
him his great d(»fects.

During this time the pood pri<.*st in-
wardly rejoiced at the success of the
little orphan, while the poor mother
sighed in making a sad comparison
between the children of the same age,
but so different in character ; and in
spite of her wish to the contrary, she
could not but see the low and envious
sentiments which ruled the. conduct of
Gustave, and the goodness contained
in each word Robert uttered. Her
heart was well-nigh broken, and in bit-
terness she exclaimed : " Wicked ! al-
ways wicked ! he has not one good
thought, one blameless moment. I am
cruelly punished for my guilty weak-
ness toward him. O God ! is it too
late to reclaim him? Is thei-e no
remedy for his wickedness ? and must
I bear all the ills of such a «»lilld V

Assured by the way in which Rob-
ert had taken the first and most dif<

830

Robert ; or. The Influence of a Good Mather.

ficult stepa In his new aboilc. the jrooil
priest prop:ired to leave. It was hi
worm and pi-essinjr terms that he rcc-
ommcnflcd his proUg- ; and embrac-
ing l»im, gave him his palernal bene-
diction. *' I will see yon soon," he said
to him, and this promise consoled liiin,
for lie felt sure lie would always be a
^nerous defender, a tender and de-
voted friend. The child flattered him-
self for some time that he had gained
the con(l<lence and friendship of Gus-
tavo, but he had soon to renounce that
belief, for, in spite of his profo'Jinl dis-
simulation, the hitter couM not always
keep up appearances, and Rr>lM»rt sud-
denly discovered the truth. This made
Gustave hate him bhterly, and nothing
could diminish it ; but Rob<;rt spoke dt
it to no one but the priest. Eiicour-
, aged by his silence, which Ctustavc
mistook for the silence of fear, he was
always makin;:; war with him when
they were alone. Before his mother,
or any other person, he did not dare
to do so, but changes of manner were
no trouble to the youn;j hypoi^rite, for
he could put t»n a b(jld air, and give
himself the calm serenity of iinioc^'nce.
Tliispromiturc oiTiiplioM, tliis innate
seicniu' of evil, he CMrefully hid, and
was deeeitliil above everything to tiiose
before whom luj wished to appear good.
In tht' first d:iys of their aequainiance
he hatl conceived a violent hatred to
Robert, b:il he felt the necessity of dis-
simulating, so as not to awaken the
suspicions of his m )th(u* ; so that he
did not openly d«'<-lare war with his
rival, for he hnew that woa'.l 1);» an ir-
ntparable faiilr. He tru>l.'d to ehanec,
which so:n"liines helps tii' wiek'd, and
waited for an oi'iasioii to piv-ent it-
self.

Robert all this while studied with
care the hfs- oih of his ilitr-nnt Tua-strrs,
which thr; goodness of his bein.'taelress
g.ive hiai the means of sharing with
Gusiavc*. It was no trouble to him t >
learn, and his prngrc^s was so rapid
and so won de rial, that his ma>ters
were ea.'liaate.l, and wei-e pro ligal of
tbeir praise-; and marks of alllrcrion,
Gustave, the lazy, indjUat boy, suf-

fered all the torments o
the first lime he f.dt p
towanl emulation, enter
that which neither the pi
tears of liis mother cou
odious sentiment of jeal
and he worked with ardo
tained him in his desficrj
his duties were no Ion«
and his hours for work v
iously employed, thai ev
believed for a time in the
onnation of her son, un<
influence of Robert. Tl
short duration, and the e
pelknl, for if his raiml p
one hand, his heart reinai
and in it every bad pa^^
died. Sad fruits of a n
cation, of an infancy a
abandoned to itself, with
without cultui-e.

Nearly a year had pa-.-
ert entei*ed the house ol
Venianges, and the tii
most pnjtitable to him i
Study opeiuid to hi-* v\i^>
that an? cenceah'd Uiy.w
and he wa-* alrealy o;mm
self a eaix»er sown wiiii
art and science, the flow*
he loagc 1 logithi-r ; an 1
the cruelty and sai-ea-m o!
w:is very happy, lor he ti
his benrlactros anl tli<
a*rl the remi'mbr.ine • of
mother, and uuiler the-*.'
rej«jic!'d. as one njoie 's ii
(»l In-aven. From ih * ii
pear.'il to him in adivam
with tie? d»'-ire t;» lie gio:
nobly fo;* thi-; end. Ofieii
wo.il«! fly to hi-* movmtai
to the grave which e n'.laiii
Neither had he foriolle
able priest o!* the Ruths ot"
an 1 had often writren to 1
time to tim.' Sf^it him s
money to be eiuployi-d in

Amoig U ib^n's ha;>j>i
w»Te tho^' he pa-^-ed w
here ; but even the-ie he c
enjoy al )ae. lor the wiel
discovered that his sadii

Boiberl ; ar^ The Injluence of a Good Motiur.

881

reached the cuiv's door,
I cruel pleasure in always
m under various pretexts,
ching these few moments
from his victim. Bui a
word from his benefactor,
doubly for this painful
Madame de Vemansjes
latred her son bore him.

be duped by the friend-
led for one he detested
1. More than once the
r had been a witness to
ckedness of the one, and
e patience of the other.
1, but had not corrected
• his strength discouraged
as Jtoo heart-stricken to
the bad genius that pos-
it was easier for her to

3 to it, though she had the
[ik by delicate attentions
arcsses to repay Robert
is sufferings.

ost the old soldier for a
e not forgotten him. At
heir separation, both he
lied bitter tears, and the
make him promise that
le sometimes to see him-
•ode. " Not there," said
, ** but I will come some-
/e a talk with you at the
uro, for I love liini, by the
)rien Hardy." And ho
lisc, and many were the
i there togetlier. On the
;h of that year the exile

1 an appeal to all faithful
it was not made in vain.
)nded at once to the call
Tor, and when he had
is warlike habits, he for-
lile the orphan and the

e Vemangcs counted her
her sorrows. She liad
or health was failing so
her i-hysicians said she
3 winter in a warmer eli-
de r a purer sky. This
blow for Robert, for he
nudi attached to his be-
d she said he was to go

to college with Gustave, who saw with
revolting indifference the sufferings of
his mother at the thought of a separa-
tion ; but all her friends thought it was
best, hoping some change in his char-
acter might take place from the strict
and severe discipline of college life.
This new an*angement was submitted
to the cure, who in all things pertaining
to him, was guided by the interest of
his protig3, and it met with his appro-
bation. Madame de Yernanges was
to be absent six months or a year, and
Robert felt that he should indeed be
isolated from her protective affection,
and \eh alone to the wicked designs of
Gustave ; who, when they were thrown
together at college, used all his time
and his power to turn the students
against Robert, and get them to league
witli him against him, for he was long-
ing for an occasion to avenge the
marks of tenderness and preference
which his mother had shown Robert
Never was a child's patience put to a
more severe test — neither the goodness
nor gencj-osity of the orfihan could
soAen the hatred Gustave felt for him.
BiTt though Robert was of so even
and calm a temperament, he could not
be injured nor oppressed without de-
fending himself, and there was but one
consideration that cui'bed his indigna-
tion, and that was the certainty he felt
that Gustave was the author of the
persecutions which each wicked boy
inflicted upon him. Had he not been
convinced of this, he would have used
the same means to punish them which
they employed to torture him ; but, ac-
cording to his pure sentiments, this
would not have been right, and be
would not have the least reproach from
his benefactress for any unkindness
toward her son. He did not oppose
his oppressors in any way, but they saw
that he felt the outrages perfectly,
and disdained, and not without reason,
to let them know IL In this combat
of all against one, the voice of consci-
ence was not always heard, and in
spite of his efforts to keep silent, there
came a time when it was insupportable.
The epithets of ^ lazy and coward" re-

Xciert ; or^ T%e Infiuenee of a Good Moiker.

888

magnificent palace once
I residence. Robert had
3 place, once such a gaj
e gilded glory has all de-
re fetes, no more balls, in
beautiful city. The grand
there, but where are the
tiers? Oh! where?
s charmed Robert, and
l>out like a young fawn
rood, to the great delight
vho rejoiced in his live-
piness, and allowed this
be had freed to follow his
cies, wherever they led
lieved that all who loved
id their pleasures ; and it
sweetest joys God has
:, that he should try to
ts to this age of life. As
wing on, Robert left off
they made ready for their
oberfs mind was filled

pictures of this visit, of
lit was so sad. As they

Paris, the benediction
!ure gave the child each
pronounced with much

prt)ved the last They
lame room, and Robert
py and trustful to bed,
; of the new and terrible
t awaited him, and in the
;s to weep over the in-
of his loved benefactor,
id serene face is radiant
1 joy. The angel of
le softly near the couch
>sed the servant of the
»k him from life, to rest
I of his Grod, leaving a
I of a virtuous and godly

lAPTEB VI.

>f God ! grace divine ! it It thoa
ly and sublime insplratloni of de-
) down Tice, Uiai elevate above idl

AH0XT1I0U&

ert realized that he had
"otector or friend he was
he depths of despair, but
the miserable considera-

TOL. IV. 68

tion of interest, which too often possess^'
es humanity, that he was so full of
regret ; it "was for the wise and virtu-
ous man that he mourned, for the loss
of his sweet and persuasive language,
and his tender and eloquent words, and
Ips indescribable air of goodness, united
to his pure life, which won all hearts,
as a tender and delicate flower attracts
and ravishes by its perfume. Stranger
to all that was passing around him,
shut up in his sorrows, made an or-
phan once more, Robert had still the
happy consciousness of having fulfilled
all his duties to his benefactor. He
awakened from his lethargy at the
sound of the first shovel of earth that
fell on the coffin of his beloved cure.
The awakening was frightfuL The
tears and sobs he heard around him
from the crowd of poor children and
unfortunate ones of eveiy degree,
whom he had benefited during his too
short career, recalled with violence to
his heart the sad realty. Another
sincere mourner tor the cur6 was his
faithful old housekeeper, who, when she
went in to take her last look of the
venerable man, saw Robert standing
there in silence and sorrow, and she
felt that she, like him, was alcme in the
world, and suffered the same sorrow
he did. But his grief and his loss, bitter
as it was, was not as fatal for his ad-
vancement as might be supposed. His
soul was too strongly fortified with the
blessing qf religion to allow him to be
long discouraged. And when he could
for a moment forget his losses, he
would look to the future, and dare to
hope, that although deprived one by
one of his protectors, the path to suc-
cess was still open to him. Madame
Gaudin had most bitter thoughts. She
was now getting along in years, being
near, fifty, and her age would be a bar-
rier to her finding a home where the
work would be li^t, so that she could
live without spending her hard earn*
ed money. From her own personal
thoughts she passed to another snl:ject
of soUcitude— the future of Robert. If
she had not felt any very strong inter-
est in the &te of l^er master's pro^i.

834

Robert ; or^ The Itifiuenee of a Good Mother.

she was too compassionate a woman
not to pity this child, who liad been the
object of his tender care. She thoufirht
of how the saintly man had praised the
intelligence and amiable qualities of
Robert, and repeated his favorite words :
" This child will be something one
day." Moved by these reraembnmccs,
she thought slie heard him tell her to
watch over the orphan. Submission
and respect for all the orders she re-
ceived was a habit with her, and she
had been accustomed to obey with such
exactitude, that she took for reality the
illusion of her heart, and resolved to
obey the inspired voice, and replace, if
possible, the charitable man who had
adopted Robert. This resolution once
made, she thought of nothing but exe-
cuting it. Going to Robert, she said,
** I know, my young friend, you arc
thinking of some way of gaining a liv-
ing for yourself. We can h ve toget her,
and it will be better for ns both, and we
shall each have some one to take care
of us. I will try to get lodgings and
work, and you can be with me when
not at your work, and God will assist
us. Unfortunately you will be obUged
to give up your studies forthe present,
which is my greatest grief; but we will
not lose courage, for I feel sure that,
sooner or later, Grod will give you an-
other proof of his gooilness. Your pen •
manship, which is so beautiful, you can
make useful and by it earn money. I
will go at once and find us a lodging,
and will be entirely the gainer by the
arrangement, for I shall have for com-
l)any a good child, who will be like a
son; won't he?" Madame Graudin
half smiled at her project, half cried
when she repented the name of the
euro, then said, " Yes ! yes ! I am sure
he inspires me to do this, he inspires
roe with an interest for this child, whom
he loved above everj'thiog else." Some
days af^er they were fixed in a small
lodging in the rue des Fosses, St. Ger-
main. She bought a bed for Robert,
.and he obtained a situation at twenty-
five fnincs a month. A year passed
in this way, without anything at all re-
markable happening. Madame Gaudin

worked, took care of thinj^s, an
Robertas praises to all. After
conscientiously finished the da;
profit of his employer, be retn
his lodgings, took his Bupp«
attended in the evenings a gn
course of di;^wing lessons. T
for which he felt each day a na
more decided taste, made him
for a time his ftast delightful
study, which had opened to his <
eyes the book with golden
which had as suddenly closed to
expressible regret. As time w
Madame Gaudin's attachment fi
ert increased so much, that
most believed he was her son ; a
did he merit it all, for he i
ed her sincerely, and was mo«t g
for all she did for him. Whcm
was out at night, she would avi
return with the greatest impa
and was perfectly happy wh€
could be near him while he wa
ing, writing, or drawing ; wliicli
employed most of his leisure
He imitjited with great care the
given him, and would have pasi
entire night working at them, fa
Madame Gaudin sweetly fon^e J
lay them aside and go to bed.

Robert had now reached his Ai
year,*and his salary wa<i inerei
forty francs a month, which ga'
great joy, as well as Madame G
though she thought that his mei
not yet remunemted enohgh, ni
standing it was a good opening f
to another career. Some dayi
he had received this mark of th<
faction his good conduct hod giv
employer handed him a lette
an express recommendation to i
brated painter, and asked him I
it to his studio, and wait for \
swer.

Arriving there, he introduce
self into the* studio where the art
at his woric. He laid down his p
and when he had finished readi
letter that was handed him, he
his great surprise the young n
gcr absorbed before the pictnn
was on his eaaeL After oonsi

Robert;, OTy 7%e Injbtene$ of a Good Mother.

835

bim for a few momenta in silence, he
asked him sev^eral questions, to which
Bobert replied with an emotion and an
accent that revealed to the painter the
• Inspiration of his souL The most
strQuDg features of his face were his
large and spiritual eyes, and his broad
open forehead, on which thought sat
enthroned. The artist was so charm-
ed with his agreeable exterior, his
ftank and expressive language, that he
inqnired with interest what he was
donogf who were his family, and what
were his projects for the future. Bob-
ert satisfied all these questions, which
were asked in a benevolent tone, by
the recital of his childhood, of the loss
of his mother, of his studies, interrupted
bj the death of his benefactors, and
finished by telling his actual position,
his tove for drawing, and his ai^ent de-
sire to come to him to study painting.
" Well, you can come, my boy," said
the painter ; ** but if you should suc-
eeed one day, can yon hide from your-
self the bitter deceptions which are the
sad shadow of glory and renown ? Yet
why should I frighten you and inspire
yoo with fear, when you trust so im-
plicitly in the future ? You can only
hope. This word is all-powerful, and
wHh your ideas and wishes you can
cmsh imder your feet every obstacle
yoa wish to surmount From this day
eoniider yourself my pupil, and I
doubt not you will do mo credit. I
^ write the answer to the letter you
knaght me, and tell your employer at
Ai same time that you belong to me
Bobert really thought he was
i;, and was afraid to stir for
''"Kr his castle would fall, until the
jP^Uiter pat the letter he was to take
^<o his handy and said, << Come back
*^xioofrow.''
J& ran aB the way, and stopped al-
fareathkss before the door of
Gaudin, opened it hastily,
I threw himself into her arms in an
^ of delight. " What is it T she
^^^Tsmiod, " what has happened you? I
"P^QV it is something good.** iter eyes
'^W'Qke so doquoit with curiosity that he
^ QBoeeoauiMnced to tell her, and re-

lated, without omitting a single word,
the recent conversation which he had
with the celebrated painter, and his
promise to take him as a scholar. This
unexpected event had filled him with
such delight, that he entirely forgot
the letter that was entrusted to him,
but immediately set out to deliver it.
Contentment gave him wings, and he
was delirious with joy when he press-
ed against his breast the letter which
was the bond of his liberty and his de-
liverance ; and without regret he bade
an eternal farewell to his former in-
sipid labor, though his heart beat as he
gave it to his employer, and as he stood
waiting for him to read it, the minutes
were like years. At last he raised his
eyes, and said, ^ So you are to leave
me, Robert ; I am sorry, for I like you
much, and I shall not soon fill your
place ; still I cannot stand in the way
of your promotion." Robert's hap-
piness knew no bounds, and he return-
ed and dreamed the sweetest dreams
that ever came to childhood's pillow.
From this time his life of struggle and
of real work commenced. Until now
he had lived almost alone, far from the
world and its attractions, and ignorant
of all wickedness. When he finds him-
self face to face with life's realities, he
is like one shipwrecked. He was
taken by his new master into the studio,
and presented to the other scholars.
Thrown like a timid lamb into this
flock, he found they had no respect for
sacred things, and his innocence and
candor were cruelly railed at, his vir-
tue rudely spoken of, and his religion
turned into ridicule ; and then some-
times, under the pretext of friendship,
they would try to make him take part
in their noisy revels. But he always re-
fused, never forgetting that his mother
had told him to seek the old and wise
for advice, and to avoid the company of
wicked young men. This enabled him ^
to resist courageously the deceitful
pleasures produced by licentiousness
and debaucheries. To his pure mind,
nothing was so de\Whttu\ as the borne
friendship, the kit^^esa ^nd the sweet
counsels he had ^V|)^l&«i9^s>nie GandSou

836

Robert; or^ The Infiuence of a Good ^Mother.

Then he made excursions in the neigh-
borhood of Paris, where he found na-
ture in all her beautiful simplicity ; he
breathed the pure country air, and
made sketches of the surrounding
scenery. In a word, he was entirely
occupied with his art, and it was his
true enjoyment. The amusement and
excesses of gayety, which ordinarily
delight the young, had for him no
charm ; and he repulsed with horror
the poisoned cup to which so many
open eager lips. My dear young
friends, if you only knew what this
bitter cup contained, you would all
dash it far from you, for in drinking
it to the dregs, you will sometimes
find crime, always remorse, a weari-
ness of all things, and a premature old
age.

Robert was spared from falling into
the snares which are set to allure youth,
which blessing can only be attributed
to the pious education he had received.
First impressions are never effiiced,
they take deep root in a child's heart,
and if good, become the fruitful germs
of many virtues ; if they are bad, they
are the source from which vice and
passion flow. In his tender years
' Uobert had loved Grod and his works ;
later, when the good cure had revealed
to him the sublimity of religion, the
orphan was penetrated with a great
love for that Grod who is goodness it-
self; and when reason and experience
confirmed all which his mother and his
protector had taught him, he believed
moi'e firmly still, and found in all na-
ture visible proofs of the grandeur and
power manifested by the Sovereign
Ruler of the universe. When his
companions were convinced that they
could not make him one of their band
of idlers, they let him alone, and treat-
^ him with the most contemptuous
indifference, which was a great hap-
piness to him, for he was no longer
disturbed in his studies, and applied
himself with such ardor and persever-
ance that his master was enchanted
with Ills progress, and prodigal of his
praises and encouragement, his coun-
sels and lessons ; and aided to the ut-

most of his ability this rai
which only demanded for its ]
aid and good direction. K
passed without his looking o
ert's studies, correcting them,
ulating the generous emulati<
young artist. Robert provec
itude by his devotion to his sti
if on the one hand the nu
proud of his pupil, on the
sincere, exalted, and just wa
spect for him, that he would 1
sidered it but a small sacrifio
given his life for a man wh
liberal of his time and knoi
him. This tribute which li
heart gave so wiUingly, wai!
only one Robert received.
Gaudin made a duty of contii
charitable work of the Abbe ^
who had shown so sublime a
terested an affection for Robe
spent without regret the 8«
twenty years, and, ahhougl
woman, she worked like a yc
inventing the most ingenious i
hiding the sacrifices she was q
make. She exhausted hersc
labor;. but she loved Robert,
with a just pride, ** He will b
painter, and will repay me a
times for all I do for him now
is a little trouble ? Fatigue so
over. I am only an old wo
have no need of anything, bu
young, so good and easily c
that if he only has air and su
is happy. He never spends j
properly, and is economical, cl
and polite. I could not love 1
if I were his mother ; and \
of God is, that he will spar
a while, that I may work \
Robert had not the least id
expedients she employed for
lating the privations she eaci
posed upon herself, but he wo
devouring energy night and
nothing is a trouble to him,
fatigue, which brings him
that glorious end, an artist
soul-inspired artist ! But mt
and its necessities must be
for ; yet he thinks not of priv

'' AeofuokMU."

837

(letelj is he fascinated with art
Ireams of fame. It soon became
alt for Madame Gaudin to hide
Robert her ahnost penniless posi-
which was all the harder because
)T excessive tenderness and love
im. She seemed to have bat one
ijht, and that was to spare him all
le. The courage of women has
orce in the heart, and if they have
as an incentive, thej can ^accom-
enda that place them far above
So she kept from Robert the know-
t of the obligation he was under
r, and for three years struggled
energy and constancy to give the
g* painter, not only the necessa-
bat also an appearance of lux-*
y which deceived him to the last
»e« Up to this time her heroic
ige was the same, but her health
I suddenly, and religion alone sus-
d her, with a firm and consoling
, when misfortunes came. Robert
needed it to keep up his spirits,
B felt a keen anguish when he saw
xtended on a bed of pain ;'but his
gave him supernatural strength,
he struggled victoriously y^iik
rtyy abandoning for a time his
. art to attend to the smallest de-
of material life, dividing his time

between the sick friend whom he sur-
rounded with delicacies, and upon
whom he lavished his tenderest care,
and work, monotonous, but productive
work ; and with his money he procured
. remedies which he hoped would brin^
back her health who had done so much
for him. In this hour of trial he n^ver
despaired, and spent sixteen hours out
of the twenty-four oflen in copying
miserable and ill-drawn pictures, and
all for a salary. But he would exclaim,
" I will be an artist." He returned
sacrifice for sacrifice, and wliiie Mad-
ame Gaudin was in danger, he had not
a moment of repose, and only found
calmness and tranquillity when con-
valescence came.' The roles were
changed. The protector became the
protected, the kind guardian of the
orphan became the object of his ear-
nest solicitude. He became a man dur-
ing her sickness; rendering her the
attentions of a devoted son, and provid-
ing for the expenses of the household.
Broi^ht down from his fairy land of
dreams by the realities of life, he is
neither less amiable nor less good, but
stronger, braver, more faithful than
ever. The wings of the child have
been folded ; h3 is only a man, that is
alL

From All the Tear RouDd.

"INCONSOLABILE."

I AM waiting on the mai^n
Of the dark, cold, rushing tide ;

All I love have passed before me,
And have reached the other side :

Only unto me a passage

Through the waters is denied.

Mist and gloom overhang the river.
Gloom and mist the landscape veil ;

Straining for the shores of promise.
Sight and hope and feeling fail.

Not a sigh, a breath, a motion.
Answers to my feeble wail.

*•* * " Aetnuotaae.'.

Surely they bays all foi^ me
Mid ti.e ^ondcR they have found

m tbe far enchanttKi mansions •
Out of heart and f^i^ht and s^nd.

Ha» I sit, Kke Judah's daughtera,
iJesolate upon the ground:

Stwngen' feet the stream are f temming,
^tmnger faces imiss me by, ^

AH hare leave to cross but I—
X, the hopeless, all bereaved,
lathing life, that loo^ to die !

^r?^ nver ne'er so turbid,

Chill and angiy, deep and drear,
AUiny loved ones are gone over,
A ^^^^ not bj doubt or fear ;

OAnd mj spirit reaches after.
While 1 sit lamenting here.

1 1 ^W7 waters that embraced them,

' ' TB^u PP'^'' '^^'ons hid from sight,

Where my keen, far-stretching vision,
Di^ed and baffled, lost them quite.
^^\ ^^measurable distance
Twixt the darkness and the light !

And I know that never, never,

TiU this weak, repining breast
r5UU Its murmurs into patience,

Yonder from the region blest
Shall there break a streak of radiance,

And upon the river rest.

I shall hail the mystic token
Brighf ning all the waters o'er,

Struggle through the threat'ning torrent
iill I reach the further shore ;

Wonder then, mj blind eyes opened,
Ihat I had not trusted more.

CktitHna O. Btmetti,

CHBIS'AsrA G. BOSSETTL*

heard some little of Miss
a superficial way, before
her book. Yarioas verses
met our eye in print, and
iselves lef^ no very decid-
3on the memory, yet wo
m impression, somehow,
LS one more of the rising
poets. Accordingly we
ell to take a retrospect of
ennysonians— Mrs. Brown-
Meredith, Bobert Buchan-
igelow, and so on — sup-
disciples — so as to be tol-
of ranking the new-comer
1 reading this volume we
)r lost through an entirely
ircumstance. Unfortunate-
3t appear that Miss Bos-
3etess at alL That there
vho think her. one, we in-
\ fact that this is in some
I edition ; why they think
t a loss to see. The book
tver a single test of poetry.
ss's best claim to considera-
she sincerely, persistently,
am to be a poetess. Only
3mo6thenian resolve could
bcr writing in face of her
ent unfitnesses. Foi\im-
le offers fantasy ; for sen-
inientality; for aspiration,
)r origmality and thought,
ling ; for melody, fantastic
f words ; and these, .with
53 for the ill-starred inten-
ose that could fetch them
no more poetry than^the
Virginian colonists' mip-
a were gold.

cursory impression of this
be, we think, that its car-

dinal axiom was ^ Poetry is versified
plaintiveness.'' The amount of mel-
ancholy is simply overwhelming. There
is^ a forty-twilight power of sombreness
everywhere. Now, criticism has takep
principles, not statistics, to be its prov-
ince ; but we could not resist the t^np-
taticm to take a little measurement (^
all this moumfulness. Limiting our
census strictly to the utterly irretriev-
able and totally wrecked poems, with
not a glimmering of reassurance, we
found no less than forty-niae sadnesses,
all the way from shadow to unutterable
blackness—^' nfemam lumbram noctem-'
que perennemJ* There is the sadness
decadent, the sadness senescent, the sad-
ness bereft, the sadness despondent, the
sadness weary, the sadness despairing,
the sadness simply sad, the grand sad-
ness ineffable, and above and pervading
all, the sadness rhapsodical They are
all there. Old Burton will rise Irom
his grave, if there be any virtue in
Pytfaagoreanism, to anatomize these
poems. What it is all about is strict-
ly a secret, and laudably well kept ;
which gives to the various sorrows that
touching effect peculiar to the wailings
of unseen babies from unascertained ail-
ments. So sustained is the ^rief, indeed,
that after protracted poring, we hang
in abeyance between two conclusions.
One is that Miss Bossetti, outside of
print, is the merriest mortal in the
United Kingdom ; the other, that her
health is worse than precarious. That
one or the other must be right, we
know. There is no other horn to the
dilemma, no tertiary quiddity, no choice,
no middle ground between hilarity and

JhrlstlaaO. Rossettl.
1866.

Boston: Rob-

Perhaps the reader can judge for
himself from tlxes^ Xxs^^h ^hicVi axe a
not unfair j

840

Christine

" MAT.

I cannot toll you liow it was ;

But thiii I know : It caniu to pats

Upon, a brtKbt and hrvcxy day.

When May was yuunir ; ah, pk-asant May !

Am y«t th«' )M)p]>If!i wrrv Df>t Ixirn,

Between the blailes uf tender corn ;

The las*! e^trs had not hatcltcil as yet,

Nor any bird furefrime its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was ;

But this I know : it did but pass.

It passed away witli sunny May,

Witli all sweet thinf^ it pas*ed away,

And left me old and cold and gray."

We may be very unappreciative, an(
probably are sinfully suspicious, bu
the above sounded at the first am
sounds at the present reading, exactli
like a riddle. We certainly don't knov
how it was nor what it was. Then
is a shadowy clue in its passing awaj
with sunny May, but we are far toi
cautious to hazard a guess. If then
be any conundrum intended, all w<
have to say is, we give it up.

We do but justice, however, in say
ing that amid much mere lupfubrioiis
ness there is some real and respectabli
sadness. The following, in spite ol
the queer English in its first line^^
sounds genuine, and is moreover, foi
a rarity of rarities, in well-choscr
and not ill-mnnaged metre :

** I have a room whcrciulo no one enters

S;ivcl Ui\>eiral')iii- :
There Kit* a lile>!(e<l memory on a throne,

There my life centres.

Willie winter comes and |roi>s— Oh I tedious comer

And while it<* nl)>-wind bli>ws;
While blnnm the bl(>i>«lleM lily and warm rose

or lavish summer ;

If any shouM force entrance be might see there

One buried, yet not d>'a<l.
Before who**? face I n<i nmre bow my head

Or {tic) bend my knee there ;

, But often In my worn lifi-'s autumn weather
1 watch there with clear eyes.
And think how it will W in l^iradisc
When we're together."

Here is one of a trite topic — nearly
all the good tilings in this book are oi
themes as old a.s moonlight — but wit]
a certain mournful richness, like au
tumn woodri :

'* Life is not sweet. One d.iy it will be sweet
To hhut our vy-i* umt <iii> :
yor feel the «il'l llowi-ri blow, nor blrdi dart by
^ With lllttin- l.»lt»-rfly ;
Ni»r jn-a<j« ltuw Imiu' alnive uur he:i'l and fti-t.
Nor hear the liappy I ivk tha ".i.irs 5ky lii^rh.
Nor «lph that fjniiik' i* llwt, and summer fleet,

Nor mark the w.ivinj wLiMt,
Kor know who >its iu our accustomed seat.

Okrisiina G. RosHtU.

841

thought seldom thrives in the
>t-hoa8e with this snper-mnooth-
(nt without pursuing the process
alts at large, we have only to
iatthew Arnold's distinction as
Rossetti :— she tries hard for
^^, and achieves «/9?^2?«Mi But
no such thing as hard work
its fruits. This straining after
ops painfully out in a p^niliar
} and diildishness of phrase
almost originaL The woman
I claim The Lamhs of Gras-
her own has not lived in vain,
odnction, with its pathetic epi*r
the maternal

kpoCa for the bleating n^outh*,
itMd of D»tiire*i nourithment,**

■eady been noticed in print,
I7 expanded many visages,
ise rapt in admiration of the
nition that could select for song
lent of feeding a sheep with a
It carries us back, in spirit, to
tie humor and delicate ironj
5r Bell, and We are Seven.
i burst of tenderness ought we
it, if Miss Rossetti should ever

see stable-boys give a horse
: . . ... We shall

examples of this simplesse ;
10 like it will find it purer and
ncentrated in the bard of Ry-
if they must have it, they are
opening this book almost any-

le individual poems, the two
The Goblin Market and
nce's Progress, are rivals for
action of being the worst. All
b poems are short, excepting
der the Rose. The story is of
tnnate daughter, whose noble
takes her to live with herself
evitable Hall, without acknow-
ler. There are able touches of
n the portrayal of the lonely,
outlawed, noble heart, that,
her mother's secret, resolves
betray it, even to her. In the

1 passage, the girl, alone at the
s her mother's favorite maid,
s her inner life :

** Now MNnetlmet In t dream,
My heart goes out of me
To build and icheme.
Till I sob after things that seem
80 pleasant in a dream :
A home sach as I see,
My blessed neighbors live in ;
With father and with mother,
AUproud qf ons another^
Named by one common name ;
From baby in the bud
TofuUAilown tcorkmanfather ;
IVb little short o^Heayen.

Of course the senrants sneer
Behind my back at me ;
Of course the village girls,
Who envy me my carls
And gowns and idleness,
Take comfort in a Jeer ;
Of course the ladies guess
Just so much of my nistory
As points the emphatic stress
With which they Uud my Lady ;

The gentlemen who catch
A casual glimpse of me,
And turn agam to see
Their valets, on the watch
To speak a word with me ; —
All know, and sting me wild ;
Till I am almost ready
To wish that I were dead, —
No faces more to see.
No more words to be said ;
My mother safe at last
Disburdened of her child
And the past past.**

The Convent Threshold— the last
words of a contrite novice to her lover
— has touches of power. There is an
unusual force about some parts, as for
example here :

" You linger, yet the time is short ;
Flee for your life ; gird up your strength
To flee ; the shadows stretched at length
Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh ;
Flee to the mountain, tarry not
Is this a time for smile and sigh ;
For songs among the secret trees
Where sudden blue-birds nest and spcnrt ?
The time is short and yet you stay :
To-day, while it Is called to-<!ay.
Kneel, wrestle, knock, do 'rfolence, pray ;
To-day is short, to-morrow nigh :
Why will yon die f why wiU you die !

How should I rest in Paradise,
Or sit on steps of Heaven alone f
If saints and angels spoke of love.
Should I not answer from my t^ono,
* Have pity upon me, ye, my friends.
For I have heard the sound thereof?*
Should I not turn with yearning eyes,
Turn earthward with a pitifUl pang?
Oh ! save me from a pang in heaven I
By all the gifts we took and gave.
Repent, repent, and be forgiven I**

The lines called Sound Sleep, p.
65, we like very well for very slight
cause. It say^ ne^^^^ not\i\ng w\ll^ a
pleasant flow ^cT^yi^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^

842

ChriiHna G. SaueUi.

charm of an oasis for the reader. Much
better is No, Thank You, John I which
strikes into a strain of plain sound
sense that we could wish to see much
more of. The style, as well as the
sense, seems to shuffle off its affecta-
tions, and the last two stanzas especial-
ly are easy, natural, and neat.

A strange compound of good and
bad is the singular one called

"TWICE.

I took my heart in myliand,

my love, my love I
I said, " Let me fall or sUnd,

Let me live or die ;
But this once hear me vpeak,

my love, my lt»ve 1
Tet a woman's wonJ« are weak ;

Vou should fpeak, not L**

Tou took my heart In yoar hand,

With a friendly unile,
With a critical eye you scanned,

Then mrt it down
And said : " It is still onrlpe—

Vettur wait a while;
Wait while the skylarks pipe.

Till the wm grows brown,"

As you set it down it broke —

Jtroko, but T dlil nut wince;
I smiled iit the P]>efch you iipoko.

At yniir Jud^nii'nt that 1 heard :
Jlut I have noi often cmiled

Sini.'etlion, nor qu(>«tiime<I »ince,
N«'r ciired for cr.rn-Uuwt'ri wild.

Nor :»unj; with the siuging-bird.

1 take ray heart In hand,
O my tJoil, O my (iml !

My bn>k'*n heart in my li»ind :

Thou ha»>t rocn, ju>l>;i.- tliou.

My hoi>e waM writtt-n i>ii >.tnd,

my timl, O my (itxl !
Now let thy Judiruieut Pluud —

Yea, Jud^c me now.

Tlds. contemnM of a man,

Thi-, iimrrutl one hoidkss flay.
This lionrt tiiko Ihoii tu »c.ia

Ituth witliiii and without :
RellnewUhfln-ItsK-.ld,

l*ur;.i' thi'U It-* dru-.-* away ;
Tea, h<i]il if. In thy hoM,

Whence none can pluck It out

2 like my heart In my han'I —

1 fhtlU iiotdii', but live —
lU-f.irct!iy f;uv I >Uu>],

I, for thou cillt-t siu-h;
Alltli.it I li:i\en>rin:r,

All thiit 1 urn T i;ive,
Sniliv th-ut. iiiiil 1 >li:ill »1n?.

But shall n«ii ijuestlmi much,"

This poom, wc conross, puzzles n? a
liltb.' lo (Icci'le u\ton it. The imitation
13 palpahlo at a jilanccbiit it is a wry
clover one: the first three stanzas
aliove all oatcli the inannori.sni of t!n?ir
model to athniration. But the wliole
is a copy, at best, of one of the arche-

tjpe^s inferior styles ; and je\
cy we can see, under all the
dizening, something of poetr
conception, though it is ill e
only dimly translucent The
too, in the parnllelism of the
last three verses. But wc do
the refrain in the fourth Terse
how it jars. Perhaps the bee
say of it is, that Browning, in
tier moments of convulsivene
write worse.

There is anotlier imitation oi
in<^ in this book, that is the ;
premely absurd string of rug$
itudcs imaginable — Wife tc
band, p. Gl. The last verse
pie enough :

" Not a word for ynu.
Not a lo^jk or kiM
U Odd- by.
We, onp, muitt part In two ;
Verily ilrath U Ihi*,
I mu»t die."

The metre generally tlm)u«jl
book is in f:ict simply execrabl
Rossetti cannot write con ten
any known or human measiir
do not think there arc ten po4
are not in Rome new-fangled =
shapelessness. With an over
ambition, she lias not the sligli
ulty of rhythm. All Ahe Ims d
originate some of the mo9t
metres that ** shake the racked
arl'« mttling car." Atteinp
only Browning's metrictil dervi
ings, but Tennyson's exquisii
bling?, she fails in both from j
want of that' fine ear that nlwav
^lie latter, and so often strikes <
beauties in the fonn»*r. Most
Rossetti's new styles of won!
are niueh like the ingenious
uaFs invent ioii for enabling
handled jHH>ple to write with
hand — moiH? or less clever
doing what she dtm't wi^h to tk
j)ossible barmony. for inslar
any one tind in tiiis jumbks \\
j)er I lie printer, is meant for a '

" There C'V'h the aw J I .w —
C'.iiilil we but t ■".;.■« •
H:n»ty jiwall'w. !.:.»>.
I'lilni m«^ui tlii* i«.i\ ;
].<> 'k b:iCk, iiwalli^ii, turuMck, ^nibllow, rt,<

OlrMna G. Bo99etd.

843

rh«re went Um firtUoir—
Too late to follow.
Lost our Dote of wa/.
Lost our chaace to-aiij.
, iwallow, Boxmy swallow, wise swallow.

Jter the swallow—
All sweet things follow ;

All things go their way,

Only we must star,
roUow ; good-by, swallow, good swallow.**

■e on earth is sound or sense in
Sfot a suggestion of melody, not
»a of a coherent idea. People
ftd such trash as thej eat tM*

a la crime: wq never could
[end either process.
I to tell, we have in this book
' the very choicest balderdash
jr was perpetrated ; worthy to
eside even the immortal Owl
ose of Tennyson. There is
at p. 41 which we would give
Id to see translated into some

language, we have such an

eagerness to understand it*
ject, so far as we have got,
to be the significance of the
e, symbolically considered,
meed over, or rather at it
id put it by for after reading,
I the style probably too deep

at first sight. On the second
we fell in with some extraor-
young crocodiles that we must
lissed before. They had just
dulged in the luxury of being
it Miss Rossetti's creative soul,
tent with bestowing upon them
( of amphibious existence, made
their young beauty by showing
fresh-hatched perhaps, and-*
with birthday dew J*
ire strong of head — we recover-
i even ^is — ^we became of the
tectfew who can say they have
is thing through. There was a
ie hero ; he had a golden girdle
wn ; he wore polished stones ;

orbs and sceptres starred his
(why shouldn't they if they

^ special bumishment adorned
I ;" his punier brethren trembled,
pon he immediately ate them
e luscious fat distilled upon his
and *' exuded from his nostrils
eyes." He then fell into an ana-

conda nap, and grew very much smaller
in his sleep, tiU at the approach of a
very queer winged vessel (probably a
vessel of wrath), " the prudent croco-
dile rose on, his feet and shed appro-
priate tears (obviously it is the hand-
some thing for all well-bred crocodiles
to cry when a winged ship come»
along) and wrung his hands.^ As a
finale. Miss Rossetti, too nimble for the
unwary reader, anticipates his ques-
tion of "< What does it all mean P* and
triumphantly replying that she doesn't
know herself, but that it was all just
so, marches on to the next monumen-
turn aere perennius* In the name of
the nine muses, we call upon Martin
Farquhar Tupper to read this and then
die.

There are one or two other things
like this hngo intervaUo, but it is re-
served for the Devotional Pieces to
furnish the only poem that can com-
pete with it in its peculiar line. This
an(|igonist poem is not so sublime an
example of sustained effort, but it has
the advantage that the rhyme is fully
equal to the context. Permit us then
to introduce the neat little charade en-
titled

"AMEN.

It is over. What is oyer T
Nay, how much is over truly I —

Ilarvest days we tolled to sow for ;
Now the sheaves are gathered newly.
Now the wheat is garnered duly.

It is finished. What is finished f
Much iiJlnUhed knoton or unkntAcn ;

Lives are finished, time diminished ;
Was the fallow field left unsown?
Will these buds be always unblown t

II sufllces. What suffices f
All suffices reckoned rightly ;

Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,
Roses make the bramble sigrhtly,
And the quickening suns shine brightly,
And the latter winds blow lightly,

And my garden teems with spices."

•

Let now the critic first observe how
consummately the mysticism of the
charade form is intensified by the
sphinx-like answers appended. Next
note the novelties in rhyme. The
rhythmic chain that links ^' over^ and
and " sow for" is the first discovery in
the piece, closely rWaUed by " ice is"
and ^ spiees" ii^ ^t last verse* But

844

Owittina G. BoueUL

far above all rises the subtle originality
of the three rhymes in the second. A
thousand literati would have used the
rhyming words under the unjxietical
rules of ordinary English. Miss Ros-
setti alone has the courage to inquire
^Was the fallow field left tinsown?
WiU these buds be always unblown ?"
We really do not think Shakspeare
would have been bold enough to do
this thus.

But despite this, the religious poems
are perhaps the bcsL They seem at
least the most unaffected and sincere,
and the healthiest in tone. There are
several notably good ones : one, just
before the remarkable Amen, in ex-
cruciating metre, but well said ; one,
The Love of Christ which Passeth
Knowledge, a strong and imaginative
picture of the cruci6xion ; and Good
Friday, a good embodiment of the fer-
vor of attrite repentance. T?he best
written of all is, we think, this one (p.
248): . -

"WEARY IN WELLrDOlXG.

1 would hare (^one : God Itode me rtay ;

1 wouhl have H-ork«<l ; God bn<le me rosi.
He broke my will from dny to day,

He read my yi-iinriii^<t unexpressed
Aud uild them uuy.

Now I would «tay ; God M<l9 nie jro;

Now I would ^l^!>t; (iod bids me work.
He breakH my heai't, to-tsed to an*] fro,

My tsoul is wrung with doubts that lurk
And vex it sa

I fim, Txird, where thou sendett me ;

Day aftvr day 1 plod and uioil :
Rut Christ my God, when will it be

That I may let alone my toll,
Aud rest with thee ?'*

This is good style (no simplesse here)
and real pathos — in short, poetry. We
do not see a won! to wish changed,
and tlie conclusion in particular is ex-
cellent: tlierc is a weariness in the
very sound of the last lines.
. It is remarkable liow seldom thought
furnishes the motive for these poems.
With no lack at all of intelligence,
they stand nhnost devoid of intellect.
It is always a sentiment of extraneous
suggestion, never a novelty in thought,
that iiHpiros our authoress. She
seems bu?ier depicting inner life than
evolving new truths or beauties. Nor
does she abound in suggestive turns of

phrase or verbal felicities,
we have seen, she will go (
way to achieve the want of i
But there is one subject whic
thought out thoroughly, and
ject is death. Whether in
the severance of earthly ties,
state, or the psychical rcLitic
linking the living to the
shows on this topic a vigor a
ness, sometimes misdirected,
wanting. Some of her qo
have a charm and a rcpulsio
like ghosts of dead b^uty :
strange sonnet :

"AFTER DEATIL

The curtains were halMrmwn, the floor '

Ami Ktrewn with rushes ; rosemary an<

I^y thick ujion the tted on which I li]

Wherethrough the lattice Ivy-ahadnw*

He leaned above m^, tblnklnfr that i slei

And could not hear him ; but 1 hr-«rd

** Poor chiUI, poor child !"' and as he lui

Camo a deep tfllini'v. and I knew be wer

He did not t>iuch the j(hn»ud, '•r nii

That hid my face, or take niy han<l in

Or ruffle the smoiith pillows f.»r luy head

He did not love me livinir. but om-t^ deati

He pitlefl me, and very swevt It !«

To know he ttlll la warm though I ai

There is some chiaro-oin
this. Under all the ghasiluu
conception, we det»H*t here
genuine, unlioping, intense!;
yearning, that is all the belt
for being tlirown into the shai
do not know of a more gniphi
tion of death. I^Iiss Kossetii
be lucky with her sonnets,
the companion piece to this
so striking as the other, bu
heart's love, and ending wii
the few passages we recall wb
without profaning the peneiral
highest love, which {lassionati*!
the welfare of the beloved one t
natural cnivings fur fruitiou a
ment :

" REMEMBER.

Remember mr ^il.rti I nni c«vii» away,
ti'Hitf far a«:iy intu the Klh-tit l.-iu«t :
Wh«-ii J Mil nil ni'-rt- ran hi.-M me by t

N'>r 1 liMir turn to |r<>, ytt turnlrjc >tay.

hrnieuibt r me wht-u no inorr. il.iy b) i
You t»-ll iiHf of our futurf th.a j"*i 1 1
Only rvmcmlier me : you uii>[rr-tan';

Ii will be liili' l«> OMuriffl ibi-n or yvkV.

Vi'l if y«^ii -biiuM forpt m*- f-ir a ulii'*
.\nd\iflt>rwanl8 rvmcnilior, d-.i n.-t ltI
For If the d;irkn>'p» anl I'-rrupti >ri Ir

A v»-!'titfe of the th<Miffhti tli:»t nc-- 1 In
li«tter liy far j'ou should f.>r^i.t a:td '
Than that you should r«ucriub«r asd

ChritHna G. SoneUi.

845

other marked pecoliaritj often
wed ft>^ is our aathoress's
[j defined idea that the dead lie
f quiescent, neither in joy nor
r. Tliere are several miserable
» to express this state, and one
\Sy so simple, so natural, and so
mt in measure, that we quote it,
\i we have seen it cited before :

When I am dead, my dearett,

Sing no Mui songs for me ;
Plant thou no roses at mj head,

Nor shady cypresa-tree :
Be the green grass above me

With showers and deir-drops wet ;
And if thott will, remember,

And If thou wilt, forget.

I sbaU not see the shadows ;

I shall not feel the nUn ;
I shall not hear the nightingale

fling on as if in pain ;
And dreaming through that twilight

That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,

And liaply may forget."

ihbold insight into so profound a

3t says more for the soul of an

r Uian a whole miss's paradise of

aesses.

singular contrast with this relig-

ervency and earnestness, the sin*

of which we see no reason to
ich, comes our gravest point of
bension of this volume. We
it &irly chargeable with utter-
— and reticences— of morally
MTOus tendency; and this, too,
y on a strange point for a poetess
cavilled at — the rather delicate
ct of our erring sisters. Now, we
f those who think the world, as to
oatter, in a state little better than
irism; that far from feeling the
nstincts of Christian charity, we
iameful]y like the cattle that gore
<k ox from the herd. The only
y pitiless power in human life is
irtue, when brought face to face
his particular vice. We hunt ibe
1 down ; hunt them to ^ den and
hunt them to darkness, despera-
ind death ; hunt their bodies from
, and their souls (if we can) from
in, with the cold sword in one
I and in the other the cross of him
came into the world to save, not
I, bat sinners, and who said to one
ese: ^Neither dd I condemn

Go, and now sin no nuxre.*'

But there is also such a thing as
misdirected mercifulness ; a dangerous
lenity, all the more to be guarded
against for its wearing the garb of
charity ; and we think Miss Rossetti
has leaned culpably far in this direc-
tion. Two poems are especially prom-
inent examples — Cousin Kate, and
Sister Maude. In each the heroine
has sinned, and suffered the penalties
of discovery, and in each she is given
the upper hand, and made a candidate
for sympathy, for very bad reasons.
There is no word to intimate that there
is anything so very dreadful about dis-
honor ; that it may not be some one
else^s fault, or nobody's fault at all — a
mere social accident. A few faint
hinting touches there maybe of con-
ventional condemnation, but somehow
Miss Eossetti's sinners, as sintiers, in-
variably have the best of the argument
and of the situation, while virtue is
put systematically in the wrong, and
snubbed generally. The Goblin Market
too, if we read it aright, is open to the
same criticism. We understand it, ^
namely, to symbolize the conflict of the
better nature in us, with the prompting
of the passions and senses. If so, what
is the story translated from its em-
blematic form ? One sister yields ; thf:
other by seeming to yield, saves her.
Again there is not a syllahle to show
that the yielding was at all wrong in
itself. A cautious human regard for
consequences is the grand motive ap-
pealed to for withstanding temptation.
Lizzie tells Laura, not that the goblin's
bargain is an evil deed in the sight of
Grod, but tliat Jennie waned and died
of their toothsome poisons. She saves
her by gokig just so far as she safely
can. What, if anything, is the moral
of all this 1 Not ^ resist the devil and
hedwiU flee from you," but ** cheat the
devil, and he won't catch you." Now,
all these sayings and silences are
gravely wrong and false to a writer's
true functions. With all.deference then,
and fully feeling that we may mistake
ormisconstrae, we sincerely submit that
some of these poems go inexcusably
beyond the Unuids of that strict moral

846

The Tut.

right, which every writer who hopes
ever to wield influence ought to keep
steadilj, and sacredly in view. We
are emboldened to speak thus plainly,
because we have some reason to believe
that these things have grated on other
sensibilities than our own, and that
our stricture embodies a considcrablo
portion of cultivated public opinion.

In conclusion, we repeat our first ex-
pressed opinion, that Miss Bossetti is
not yet entitled to take a place among
to-day's poets. The question remains,
whed^er she ever wilL We do not
think this book of hers settles this
question. Ovdev inoiriaej slie has done
nothing in poetry yet of any conse-
quence. These verses may he as well
as she can do. They oontain poeti-
cal passages of merit and promise,
but they show also a defectiveness of
versification, a fiilscness of ear, and oc-
casionally a degree of affectation and
triviality that, we can only hope, are
not characteristic To borrow a little
of the style and technology of a sister
^ branch of thouglit, the case, as now
presented, can be accounted for as in
essence a simple attack of the old and
well-known endemic, caccethes scri-
bendi. Probably it betoU her at the

usual early age. Only insten
run of gushing girls, we hav<
Gabriel Rossetti's sister, Jean L
intimate fiiend, and a young
intelligence and education, cq
in contact with real literary
and — what is thoroughly cv
this book — read in our bes
Add all these complicating syi
and is there not something {
about the diagnosis ? We do
observe, and do not mean to t
this is Miss Rossetti's case ; onl
has done so far seems explic
this hypothesis. For ourscl
lean to the view that she will c
We judge hers a strong, scnsu
pulsive, earnest, inconsiderate
that sympathizes well, (eeh
keeps true to itself at botti
does not pause to make sure ihi
must, as well as may, enter :
spirit that underlies her utteraii
so buries her meaning someti
yond Champolliou's own \x)
deciphering. But her next h
determine how much is to be
to talent, and how much to pra
good ^models ; and sliow us
genius or gilt edges separate
the ol TToAAof.

THE TEST.

She stands with head demurely bent.

A village maiden, young and comely.
And he beside her, talking low

And earnestly, is Lord of Bromleigh.

^ Now raise thine eyes, and look at me.

And place thy little hand in mine,
And tell me thou my bride will be^

And I and Bromleigh shall be thine ;
In richest silks thou shalt be drest —

Have diamonds flashing on each hand,
And in all splendor shalt outshine

The proudest lady in the land.

The Test. ^ 847

On softest carpets thou shalt tread,
On velyet eushiona shalt recline ;

Whatever is most rich and rare

That thoa mayst wish for shall be thine."

** I do not covet silk attire,

Nor glittering gold, nor flashing gem ;
There is no longing in mj heart

To change mj simple dress for them.
' A village maiden I was bom —
^ A Tillage maiden I was bred —
A happj life for eighteen years

In that low station I have led.
How do I know if I should change

My state for one so high, but then
The world might change, and never be

The thing it is to me again ;
But from the field, and from the sky,

The glory and the joy would go ;
The greenness from the meadow grass,

The beauty from all flowers that blow ;
The sweetness from the breath of spring,

The music from the skylark's song :
Content, and all sweet thoughts that bring

A gladness to me all day long?''

<< Thy fears are idle fears," he said ;
<^ Love, loyal heart, and generous mind,
Can happiness in lordly halls

As well as in a cottage find.
For this is of the soul, and bound

To no degrees of wealth or state :
Then put thy little hand in mine

And speak the word that seals my fate !
I love thee, Marian, more than life —

Have loved thee, ah ! thou dost not giless
How long, unknown to thee, my soul

Hath shrined in thee its happiness.
More precious than the light of day.

Thy beauty is unto mine eyes ;
More sweet &an all earth's music else

Thy voice that now to me replies.
Oh I would it speak the words I long

More than aU other words to hear,
I were the happiest man this day

That breathes the breath of earthly air."

She raised her head, and in her eyes
A tender look his glances met,

But 'twas not love — ^though kin to it —
A look of pity and regret.

^ It pains me more than I can tell
I To apeak the words I ought ; but yet
They must be said ; and for your sake
I would that we had nevtr met

848 The Tut.

For if you love me as yoa say,

I can conceive hovf great the pain
I give when I declare the troth,

I cannot love you, sir, again.
And I shouli^sin a grievous sin,

Should do a grievous wrong to you,
If I should put my hand in yours

Unless my heart went with it too.
Not joy and pride, but grief and shame.

Go with the bridegroom and the bride
Into the house where they shall dwell.

Unless love enter side by side.
And I, because my heart is given

To one I love beyond my life.
Could find no joy in Bromleigh Hull

Am all unfit for Bromleigh's wifg :
But did I love you, then, indeed,

Although my state be poor and mean,
I were as worthy Bromleigh Hall,

As wore I daughter of a queen.
For love hath such divinity

That it ennobles every one
That owns its mastVy, and can make

A beggar worthy of a throne.
This I have learned — ^love taught me thi}< ;

The love that is my breath of life :
That will not leave mo till I die,

That will not let me be your wife.
Forbear to ui^ge me more, ray lord ;

It gives me (min to give such pain ;
Here let us pairt, and for the sake

Of both, to never meet again."

*^ Stay yet a little, Marian, stay !

My heart was wholly thine before.
Or what thou sayst would make me swear

That now I love thee more and more.
A beauty brighter than a queen's,

A mind with noble thoughts so graced.
Among the highest in the land,

Were best esteemed, and fittest placed.
Yes, there thy rightful station is.

Amongst the noble of the earth :
And 'twere a sin unto a clown

To mate such beauty and such worth.
Thou could'st not live thy truest life ;

Thy fullest joy thou could'st not find.
Chained to a poor cot's drudgery.

Wed (o a dull, unlettered hind."

Then flushed her fiice wifh maiden scorn.
And thrilled her voice with proud disdain ;

And proudly looked her eyes at him
Who dared not look at her again.

swr

What I Heard <dfoul Situalism in a Oii^

And though I Harry Nugent am.

The master of the villiige achooly
So am I Harry Nugent Vane,

Lord of a higher rank and rale,
The which I left to win thy love ;

And now I know that it b inioe,
I take it bac^k^ my own true wife.

And Bromleigh Hall h mine and (hl&ou

WHAT I HEARD ABOUT RITUALISM IN A CITT

u i^ oup;ht to be stopped, and it's all
nonsense.'*

** It ifl all very well to eiiy * it ought
to.be stopped/ and that * it ia all non-
sense/ hut, ray dear sir, we cannot stop
it, for the people will have it ; and I
beg leave to differ with you, for I think
it is very far from being nonsense,'*

It was in a Seventh Avenue rail-
way car, and as I sat next to the last
speaker, a clerical-look mg person, I
could not help overhearing the con-
versation. The other appeared to be
one of those old gentlemen who are
positive about everything — who, even
in the tie of their cravat^ say as plain
as cun be, ** This ia the way I intend
to have it> and I will have it.**

" I perfectly agree with the Bishop
of Oxford," said he- " See here**—
and he opened a newspaper and read
as follows ; ** ' I have no great fear that
as to the majority of the people there
is any tendency towai*d Home; and,
on the contrary, I believe that in many
cases this development of English
ritualism tends to keep out people
from Rome. It may, however, happen
that the tendency of these things is to
what I consider to be at this moment
the worst corruption of the church of
Rome — its terrible system of Mariola-
try/ There, you see what it tends
to, and it is plain enough^ although tiio
bishop did not like to say so, of course^
that ritualism in our churches will
educate our people to become Catho-

lics ; and so he adds^ very |
' I regard it with deep dieti
own belief is that to stop
tit^s it will only be net^tfssad
bishop to issue an injunctid
clergymen to surcease I
surcease from inccnsiog \
— to surcease from pr
oonsecraLion of the holy i_
surcease from inceosing al
ficatJ My opinion precisely

" Have you evor ooosSdeml
sense of these tbin^l?* inqiB
clerical friend.

" Can't see any sense in
tartly responded the old gentl

** No ?** returned the othfTJ
there must be some good
this wide-spread desire of
and laity for a more
in divine servicey'*

«' Faskionabk^ra
else*'*

'* It gives dignity and
public worship.'*

** Mere show."

'' It adds to the
the sacred itinctioiis <
administration of the
licularly/*

**Ha! hal yes, tt wo
parent reality for tis.
that * apparent reality' lat4
report of the ordination of
bishopf<, and I thought it ik 1
priate remark.'^

'' But you must admit i

852

Th€ Bxn-en Fi^-IVte and the Cro$$,

in your conversarion jaat now ; but may
I aak on what principle lliose ritual-
istic forms and ceremonies are being
adopted by Protestants, and being in*
iroduced into tbeir servicer ?''

" Hie principle is this, that they are
all deeply significant of the different
truths of the Christian religion, a
visible expression of the faith of the
worshipper.**

** We understand that perfectly as
Catholics,*' said I, " but aa your congre-
gations differ BO widely in their indivi-
dual belief, these forms and ceremonies
would possess no significance to the half
of any one congregation of Protestant
worshippers. Now, with us Catholics,
Ihe ceremonies have a universal sig-
niticancet as all our people are unit^
in one faith.'*

*^ We will educate our people to it,**
said he.

»* That is, you would make the faith
of your worshippers an exprcasion of
the ceremonies you perform, and not
Ihe ceremonies an expression of their
faith* In the Catholic cburch the
faith is aE one to start on, and the ap-
propriate ceremonies follow as a mat-
ter of course.*'

*' I acknowledge,** i^tta
we have not paid suflicie
the vital necessity of a
would embody and show
of our church/'

" But when you have |
which supposes, as it i
doctrines, and which, aa
your friend, instructs the
doctrines, are you not
private judgment of thoai
who do not beUeve theee
wish to have a ritual
ent with their belief?
have you to impose arit
inconsistent with tlieir

^ We do not impose
ritual,** he replied 5*' if
it they can go elsewbereJ

^ But then you would ~
to have, as many diffisrfl
your people have individi
of behef, and that would
division and dissension •**

** It is excessively wi
think so ?** said the minii

*^ It is,** said I, ** but I
going to have a storm
getting quite cloudy,**

THE BARKEN FIG TREE AND THE CROS

O QAPtEss tree ! which doth refuse
Thy fruit to him who thee hath made :

Cursed and withered none may um
Thy barren limbe for fruit or shade*

O Cro68 of death ! which man did make.
Barren and fruitless though thou be,

Thy sapless branches life shall take
From that sweet fruit he gave to 1 '

O happy tree I divinely blest !

True, thou bast neither leaves nor root ;
Yet 'neath thy shade a world shall rest,

And feast upon thy heavenly iruit 1

854

New PuUieaHom.

the materials with their foct and throw-
ing them back to one common centre. In
this heap tho birds bury the eggs perfectly
upright, with the largo end upward ; they
are covered up as they are laid, and al-
lowed to remain until hatched^ when tho
young birds are clothed with feathers^
not with down, »s isi usually the caae.
It is not unusual for the natives to ob*
tain nearly a bushel of eggs at one time
from a single heap ; and a:s they are deli-
cious cattng, they are as eagerly sought
after as the flesh. The birds are Tery
stupid, and easily fall a victim to the
sportsman, and will sit aloft and allow a
succession of shots to be fired at them
up til they are brought down. — Lamp,

7%€ Mvmuhir Fibr^ qf th% ffeart of
Vertebra Us. — We have received from Dr»
J. B, Pettigrew, the accoinpliahcd sub-
curator of the Royal College of Surgeons'

Museum, a copy of hia excrilrnt mor. %
graph on the above subjt*ct, J ii c m i n oir
is certainly tho finest which h^^ uii h^rf
produced ; for it is comprchcii^iTe, du.%
and accurate, and is accomptftiod i^i
great number of beautiful litliogTS{)fc%
which havo been taken from phoi
graphs of actual dissectioiia In« i
rangement of the muscular fibtti, i
monstrated by tlie author, shtdi I
light upon the peculiar mov
heart. For this reason tli« MuqrlM _
great physiological impoftatiot, aai te^
the circumstanco that the anatonjof iT
heart in the four vertcbrabo
fully explored by Dr. Pcttigftw, i
e^ual import and interest to tha e
ative anatomist Wo bive also i
ed Dr. Pcttif^rAw^tf reaper on Qiii
Apparatus < lUtorf I

we commtri .rtae to oori

favorable notices — Mmc9 .

NEW PDBLICATION&

LtFF or Cathi!rt??e McAiTLfiv. Foun-
dress of the institute of Ileligious Sis-
ters of Mercy. By a member of the
order (belonging to tho Convent of
Mercy, at St. Louis), etc 1 vol 12 mo,
pp. 500. New York, D. & J. Sad-
tier & Co., 18(10.

This biography introduces a new, and
hitherto generally unknown, character to
the acquaintance, and, we are sure, to tho
admiration of the English-speaking Cath-
olic public. The anonymous religious
authoress has shown herself well quali-
fied for her filial task, and has conferred
a great benefit both on her order and on
the cause of religion in general. The
nearness of the period in which her v^en-
erable subject lived, tho testimonr of a
number of the best informed and most
trustworthi?^ witnesses who were person*

^ ally aoouainted with her, and the ma-
terials mmished by other memoirs and

» letters, have given the writer of this
biography an abundance of the most
authentic data from which to produce a
truthful and complete sketch of the
Foundress of the Sisters of Mercy.

We have had the pleasure of learning
something of the history of Catherine
McAuley, and of the foundation of her
institute, from one of her own earliest

and most tr II ' ho hi

tho same i' roiighl It

tlourishii^ conaiuon ju rour oC tbi J^^
England SUtea* The porlnit «f
drawn by her biographar,
with, and completes thd
idoa of ^^'^r r>,.,ract«r W«
from t' i((o8^urc«»

It is „ . lio years idnca CMImi^
HcAulcr WIS born^ forty ymn thw
she made the first begtnmog of b« ^
stitute, and twenty five fmr* fiiioa bit
death. Her period of active lUa
only fourteen ycta^ Yet
now more than two hundred
and three thoiisnr
the congregation %^f

scattered over jrpiJina, " _
United States, BntiaK Ammkm^
America, and Australia ; altb<f«|jb
mortality among tlie aiaters ii il
high rate of ten piar cent a jcar.

These fiu^ts profe btttar tbmsk my «to-
quence the value of tht lUSe tod wttrki^
the foundress of the tnstitcita^ H «r ftr^
sonal histonr is uncomiaoiiljr iniii
jng and highly ronumte. Bm wv
daughter of highly rii]
parents residing in Dul»lhi. Lollop bur
parents at an early age, ah« q
the guardianship of rclatiTea
strict Protaitenla tod intoniBly

lyoflta^

856

Nino Publications^

oiialy^ thiit h© * regretted her sex prcclud*
ed her from that distiDgmshed place in
the imperial sooatc to which her elocu*
tionary abilities entitled her** Then
glancing at the girls who surrounded the
oratress, he continued with emotion :
* Often have I listened with nerve un-
strung and heart unmoved to the cal*
umny and invectives of our national
enemies; but to-day, as I look on the
beautiful young virgins of Erin, my her-
culean frame quivers with emotion, and
the unbidden tear moistens my eye.
Can such a race continue in ignoble
bondage I Are you bom for no better
lot than slavery 1 No,* ho continued,
with increasing vehemence, 'you shall
be free ; your country shall yet be a
nation ; you shall not become the
mothers of slaves/ '* (pp. 146*47.)

What a contrast between such genuine
heroic characters as these, the true glory
of their people, and the mock-heroic
charktans, whose genius shows itself
only in gathering in money from labor-
ing men and servant-girls, and organizing
raids which end only in the death and
imprisonment of their most unlucky
dupes, and bitter mutual accusations of
treachery and cowardice among the
leaders. The worst enemies of the Irish
people are those who seek to alienate
til em from their clergy, and to lead tbem
aslmy from the true mission given tbem
by divine providence, which is idcntiiied
with their traditions of faith and loyal-
ty to the church. They are like Achaz
and the false prophets of Judah, who
contaminated the people of Qod with the
faisc maxims of the nations around them*
Men and women like Daniel O'Connell
and Catborino McAuley are the Maccha-
bees and Judiths of their nation. Through
such as these, the faith of Ireland may
yet conquer England, as the trampled
faith of Judtea conquered Rome; and her
long martyrdom obtain the due meed of
glory from the children of her old op-
pressors.

Wc recommend this book to all those
who claim kindred either in nationality
or in faith with its subject, and who wish
to rekindle their devotion or renew the
memoriefi of their ancestral bome« We
reooromend it especially to our wealthy
Catholics, that tbev may meditate on the
example of princely charity given them
by this young heiress, who gave away a
fortune more readily than most others
would give one twentieth of a year's in-
come. We request our fair young read-

ers Alao^ to Ity asid« their no,
while, and read the life of one |
beautiful, gifted, highly educ
ed of all, rich in worldly |
all earthly happiness co
ance; and vr^ - '*- v » ih
and the sevi : i^itj

shone forth:, . _,., ijio
Christian virtues to her
that all those who are prfj4
the Catholic f^th, and wfc
have the candor which pftjfti
tue, conscientiousness, and {
whereyer seen, might also i
history of Catherine McAfl
institute adds another to T
tical, living proofs, mor« i
any speculative ar^umenta,]
and power of the f
a history never hn
sible outside the
church. Its occurrence in our oti
shows that the cJburch is i
the fruitful mother of
the old Catholic [denn wbi
martyrs of young r
Claras and Teresa-
over the souls of those who I
the same faith. We liave 1
curring the displeasure of
or of his successor, in giving '
ment that Catherine McAule
true Christian heroine, a wo
same high stamp of ch
Teresa, whom sue
striking respects.

It is superfluous to say thai I
raphy will be a most i
ligious houses, Exampltl
ful than precept, and a i
more powerful than a
were to be wished that simlll
were more numerous. Thtri (
rials in the recent history of otK^
as well as in thatof theinstltuta i
which might be used to grea.t t
The hhtory of the AmeHeaii
of the Order of the Viutatioo '
worthy of a place, even in i
that ancient order. ""
are not only instructWa^ I
written, superior in that
oiptlvates the feelings ftodj
of the young, to the
which their time and tensi%
oHen wasted. The present
written in thai Hvety and
with a dash of humor to ~
makes a biography moat
entertaining. Keligion ^
cheerful aad attractive

856

Sew PuhticaHanM,

that these two ladies occupied the same
room that night, if not the same couch.
The heroine s father was a bad man, and
Bal Tompkins is also a daughter of his,
which may satisfy the reader, but should
not the parties concerned, Bceing they
know nothing of the fact. Sal becomes
a Tcry lady -like person in an incredibly
short space of time, and the discovery
of her left-hand relationship is received
without the slightest remonstrance or
disgust. The yillain of the story is the
hero's lawyer and factotum ; a pretty
good yillain^ as fat as his language and
intentions go ; but he is represented as so
vioIenCy villainous that we are led to
believe the author is prejudiced against
him. He makes use of a written con-
fession of murder penned by the hero
while laboring under hallucination of
mind (a real tit-btt of science, which the
distinguished author could illustrate
much better in another department of
literature than he has done here), and on
the strength of it arrests him in England,
whither Severn e arrives after a telegraphic
journey around the world. The way in
which our author here dispatches mes*
sengers to Suez and Constantinople from
England^ quite takes our breath away.
The imprisonment, trial, acquittal, and
subsequent disgrace of the perjured law-
yer quickly follow, to the utmost satis-
faction of the reader, who being behind
the scenes (as he is alwayi kindly per-
mitted to be), supers no pangs of ajuuety
for the results. The author says the
heroine showed no emotion whatever of
surprise or annoyance when the self-ac-
cusation of murder written by her affi-
anced husband was shown to her, un^
doubted ly genuine as it was. Here again
we are sorry to differ with him. Of the
other characters little need be saiiL
There is a portrait of **a lady*' in Grace
Langley ; an attempt at an imitation of
Chadband, the renowned apostle of
** trewth,** in Brother Jenkins ; and a Mr.
Goodall, who is introduced, as it would
geom, to play a part which he does not
find. The atory of Ulrich de Huttcn
with his wonderful unique copy of an
old book, and his magic pents^ramme, is
made to link in with the principal events
of the story, but from its peculiarly
romantic character, has no unity
with it : the best proof of which is that
the whole of it could be erased ffxnn the
book, and the reader would not miss it
YThat moral we are to draw from it we
tre also at a loss to divine^

That the author i
dent enough, both!
from others of a
which he has eontrifa
ment of adeooe ;
plished as a ooveli
tent to do, Bobcri (
our humble judgmt
mony.

Tfe School of Jssus i
the Italian of F. Ig
of Jesus. PassioniJ
D. & J. Sadlier k Co. j

To meet with a book j
so much that is cold, 1
heartless in the public
is like meeting with a 1
in a cotton bale. Jta
sweetness possess a i
every page glows witll i
and warm devotion wfc '
sion of a devout Cb
cannot iul of kind
the soul of him '
lessons taught frofl
Cross. The worthy trai
thus in the prefiM»: "I
Jesus Crucified ! What 01
not wish to study therciii \
dom and patience and f
the divine will^ from
God man, who came
sumed our frail mo
model, as well as a Reda
tion which, we think, \
c€t very many, and J
cure and use this i
rery appropriate
is quite a notioeabU
commends itself to^
printed and weU-dothe

Thb Frctich Makuau

concise, and
ing a conversaiJ
French Lang
tionary of over !
By M. Alfred Ha
and corrected
Edition, with a
nunciation. D. Applf
York

This is certainly an \
old prograaiife system <
full V r^lizes all its T ~
evidently the work i

860

New PtiUicaiumi.

Doth rrira a r»<mftne« p5 torely, fw*f t.
Bo vlnnlni;, full, and ?r&clou» *• ihy Tolce.
Tni*t mc, 1*11 know lhe« well ainidft them aJl [*•

The final tableau, in which loktithc,
with restored sight, recognizes her father,
and she and Count Tristan, her betroth*
ed, each other, is full of dramatic power*
We promise the reader a pleasure in the
perusal of this poem such as ho seldom
©njoys*

OvT OF TowN» 1 voL 12mo, pp. 31 L
New York: Hurd k Iloughtoiu

This is a sprightly book wrought out
of a common and everyday subject : a
change from a city to a country life.
The story is told in an easy, off-hand,
and peculiarly attractivo way, and en-
gages the attention of its readers, par-
ticularly those of the rising generation.
The writer contrives to invest the most
ordinary topics with a zest which keeps
alive the interest of his reader to ike
close* It is a perfect pot pottrri of fun
and humor, dished to suit all palates and
alt ages. But it has a fatal blemish in
our judgment:— a perpetual parade of
decanters and pipes. The writer seems
to think that there can be no such thing
as conviviality or good cheer without
intoidcating libations. Why cannot
those who write books for the young
avoid this rock of offence f Surely
tliere is small need, in these days, of
such temptation. Everyday life reeks
with the disgusting and pernicious habit
of tippling. Why docs it become ne-
cessary that every new book for our
children should be redolent of the fumes
of the bar-room ? Are our book-makers
aware what an impetus they are impart*
ing to that wave of desolation whicli is
swelling over the fair face of our beloved
country, and which threatens, more than
any other one thing, to submerge and
sweep away all those barriers of virtue and
morality on which rely our hopes for
the protection of religion and a healthy
morality V

Sjldlier^s Catholic Dirictory, Al*

MAN AC, AND Ordo, for the year of our
Lord 186T. New- York: B. and J,
dadlier & Co.

North America- and Ireland
advertisements. As a popq
Directory for the United St
said that at least one half
partial interest

The portion devoted to -.i
States is apparently very full, i
curate, no doubt, as thopublf'
been able to make it We < "■
ever, that the Church
land and British Aroer.,
uable little summary at t_
while no such summarjl
Church of the United $tKU_

If one would look anyvrben
think it would bo in just such
tion as the one before us, i '
confess to being disappointed
ing it here.

Mr. p. O^Shia, New-Y4
press a new edition of The L
tic By Rev. C. Walworth. ^

BOOKS ItBCKTlO.

From I>, Arri3tojr, & Co;» 2<4»vri^
Md bla Cottii. Sty Mm U Mftbfl

liutntioQi. 1 voL 6vQ, Cloth, fSf

From Ijetfoliit k Dolt, l^rm^t
PauRbter, * Danish LyrtdU T
Hcrti, TmujUted by Tbffl
43ma, t>p. 100. Prie* |1 «X

From M'OtLL k NatJiii, A
wTkztT of the S»crvd Q«iiK^
bulietia ofltoe ApotUcihl^ of I

lUlOtlEU.

From BKsrzraift Hues. AH* f^wmk
trmted GeTmma CmthoUo Mitfm<^»fi
ftonam.

From Hcrim A HorQHTQV, |C»«^Taft;
Ujr FrendA Turner ^^ffif*^ J WL
Price tl Tflt

From D, AfPLBIOff k Get TWt
new, phnple^ coQdf«, utd «ui c
■ cuavcruttionftl knowledfo «f \km 1
including & Mctlonsry of oirerltall
By M. Alfred H*rr^ 1 rol. ir

Prom I>

WO. Vn^

ft J

f^imm k Co., K«»-1
^ r, F<miidra«aa4i

ttgtoM SUtOTi of I

J«r oC Moror. If

tl^d " • !tjUlAiiell

c«ni to a

Ibe Iihj:!-:''!*' ui ut* OH

tint of Uie &ldo of hm»i fteri«i
4« Mil abr

JVicc 1 1 ^.\

This volume consists of about 647
pages of matter of which 200 paces are
devoted to the Church of the United
Stfttes, 100 to the Church of British

From i. L lVra>a ftu, IH. L<tuJ«J
9ti«niU« O'Brien, aa «aa«ar to 9i«
WUJUoiB UA^ti. utuwr
RMt UiUe Ihttilf. Ft
WalUjiK *i tbe WladiW.